held up in gutterwork masterpieces,
half a shard of torn and ragged paper edged on,
where once it bore, proud and in eager definition,
a reminder of little importance or,
a note of sweet insincerity or,
the last refuge of an eviscerated mind;
and, lost to entropic freedom,
no-body would care to ever even want to begin deciphering those smears.
not that they could, anyway.
the death of parking lot culture,
they say,
is all down to the skin on the teeth,
of a couple earthquake-gowned security wardens,
and the irresistible clamour
of city lights:
"just gotta get away, get outta this place" you say,
when you haven't slept
a real night
in three or so months, at last count, in the best-case,
whereas the real tragedy
is the drizzle,
that you're sure
will never,
ever,
cease to fall,
inside of you,
even though you keep telling yourself,
it's still just a lie.
it's all just a storytime fabrication.
it's all just waiting to fall apart.
and you're just hoping it's sometime soon.