Every week they gather around in a dark room
Where sounds are the rulers of body movement
Music becomes the puppeteer that aims to abolish silence
Prophecies of love and lust spread across the floor
The veins of the room are shaken by harmonies
Sight is overworked to the point where it no longer works
Light beams run wild, and spotlights bring shadows to centerstage
This busy room is where the dead are born again

But when we want to talk about the dead
Who said anything about coffins and carcasses
Anyone becomes dead when they have lived too much
Like this lady in the corner sipping on her drink
She wears her lips like blood on a battlefield
Her body is raised like she's tipping over the edge
Her skirt hugs her like an old lover
She laughs loudly like she’s ready to cry
Her tears fall directly from the cracks of her broken heart

Another is a boy drinking his youth away
And drinking away all his clean shirts and pants
His eyes wander and surf through the sea of people
Around him are others who drink like him
Others who want to forget
He gulps down each red cup he can get his hands on
He waits for the alcohol to go straight into his brain
Like polish remover, erases the traces of heavy hands
And sharp words that hurt him every time he breathes

For some, this busy room can be home for a few hours
Because home is where life is not allowed
Life does not interfere with our safe space
We come to this room with our dead hearts
Hoping a drink or a song would jumpstart it back to life
We hope the beats bring back the beats in our chests
We hope it brings back the warmth in our skin
For this is the room where the dead are born again