It's Something

I can't quite place it, but there's

something about the place

that's a bit out of place.

maybe it's

something in the air,

the way it's been recycled

by a million lungs too tired to remember

what their purpose is,

and which continue their involuntary action

by brute force of will.

or perhaps, by default?

it's

something in the roads,

the subliminally devilish ways

the paths are laid out;

the mixture of gravel and asphalt

that's not a street, but a

mask for the hollowness beneath it all.

or has the hollowness spread to the people, too? (should I let them know they reek of it?)

the Sun does

something to this place, something unpleasant;

whether it's present in full glory

or hidden behind the gray, the way

its beams reflect and refract and

attack you from every direction is

an exercise in exhaustion.

or is that residual exhaustion, left behind from those before us?

there's

something in the color palette that's displeasing to

the eye, whose hues are made more

gaudy and god-awful by the deceitful sun,

whose brilliance we learned to depend on but

not here,

not this place.

this place is something,

it's something incorrect.

it's a smudge left on a map from

an explorer's greasy fingerprint.

it's the look of a face

attached to a neck

you'd be happy to wring out;

it's the response from its lips that force you to

turn around

before they drag you down in their muck.

it's the aura of a badly bleeding soul

walking in the shadows to avoid that sun,

well aware its only destination is the

same Skid Row it just left behind.

it's a place we've been before,

and one we'd happily never return to.

it's a place that's

something and n o t h i n g,

there and n o t t h e r e .

it's the place that convinces you

hell is real,

and it's in your own backyard.

and it's calling to you.

you can't hear what it's saying,

not exactly.

but you know

it's something.