no one is around
i walk down the streets of a vacant wasteland
forgotten, discarded, tattered
red cups drag across asphalt
with no force pushing them but the
tired alcohol stained breath of the wind.
this beautiful sunday morning-tainted
by the drunken cheers of last night
the life-poured, guzzled, shot
out of this place
death hangs over the streets while a
drunken hibernation swallows my
"highly esteemed" peers.
shattered glass cracks beneath
my feet as i follow the pathway
to my house; to my successes
this place…
this is home.