Numbered Graves Poem by Daniel Bellerose

People walking down a crowded street, never noticing the smoke surrounding them
Lights, noise, money drowns out the sound of the boots marching to the rhythm of the coin
Masses fall and raise, sirens wail, hands fly, souls soar, and the chandeliers fade to black
Black glass melting in pools of debauchery, pouring down the throats of those who stand wanting
Wanting, waiting, searching for an answer, searching for a solution to the problem of life
21 floors of jagged teeth, dressed as slot machines
Poised to take their bite and kill the innocent people lost inside
People drained out of the grand entrance, red vomit coating their wallets
Screaming, crying, tearing out their eyes in the hopes that their sight is their hindrance
Maybe if they can’t see their pain it doesn’t exist
But it does
It follows them out the golden doors and back to their homes, reeking of failure
Hands clench the last few bills, tears cascade down a golden pillar of dreams
Dreams crash and burn, spreading their dark smoke throughout the room
Choking, gasping for air, swimming through the blackness to try to find solace
But the only light is that of the next street, the next chandelier
It too will melt in due time, and the grand cycle will continue
Until its inhabitants crumble as dust into the carpet, with only numbers on their gravestones