Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
And look closer to see an empty lot.
Concrete and steel surround me,
Sitting alone in an empty space in the crushing mass.
The darkness is broken,
Only slightly by the glow of three red lines of neon.
They're close together,
Racing high around the walls.
The rain moves through like a living entity,
A part of the city, breathing, separated yet connected.
There's a ledge, a box, on which I sit,
That stands in the middle of that empty space.
Am I waiting?
Perhaps thinking?
I know someone's coming.
I can't see them, but I sense their presence.
Looking up against the harsh red neon,
Stands an even harsher display that burns longer and harder than any ignited gas ever could.
The sight of my friend, frantic.
His face showing the ravages of the harsh introspective comedown of a jaw grinding trip through hell.
His black hair pulled back,
So hard that his face looks like it's being stretched by invisible hooks.
Face, smiling,
But not happy.
Lines cross his face,
Just like perfect ones do.
Long cuts,
Done with a steady hand.
A long time ago, the bloodletting,
Now, only scars, still red, remain.
No longer worn on his soul,
But on his face.
For all to see,
For all to poke,
For all to touch.
They go deep,
Seemingly endless, and also relentless.
Flesh separated,
From that steel someone wielded, serrated.
What does your face and this
Noir-ish metropolis mean?
A nightmarish vision,
Where things are wrong.
The answer dangles,
Like that cigarette in his hand.
Shaking slowly,
Burning away...
---
Waking up,
It’s 4 p.m.,
And she's waiting for me, downstairs.
------------------
Still post-rockin' in a free world
Concrete and steel surround me,
Sitting alone in an empty space in the crushing mass.
The darkness is broken,
Only slightly by the glow of three red lines of neon.
They're close together,
Racing high around the walls.
The rain moves through like a living entity,
A part of the city, breathing, separated yet connected.
There's a ledge, a box, on which I sit,
That stands in the middle of that empty space.
Am I waiting?
Perhaps thinking?
I know someone's coming.
I can't see them, but I sense their presence.
Looking up against the harsh red neon,
Stands an even harsher display that burns longer and harder than any ignited gas ever could.
The sight of my friend, frantic.
His face showing the ravages of the harsh introspective comedown of a jaw grinding trip through hell.
His black hair pulled back,
So hard that his face looks like it's being stretched by invisible hooks.
Face, smiling,
But not happy.
Lines cross his face,
Just like perfect ones do.
Long cuts,
Done with a steady hand.
A long time ago, the bloodletting,
Now, only scars, still red, remain.
No longer worn on his soul,
But on his face.
For all to see,
For all to poke,
For all to touch.
They go deep,
Seemingly endless, and also relentless.
Flesh separated,
From that steel someone wielded, serrated.
What does your face and this
Noir-ish metropolis mean?
A nightmarish vision,
Where things are wrong.
The answer dangles,
Like that cigarette in his hand.
Shaking slowly,
Burning away...
---
Waking up,
It’s 4 p.m.,
And she's waiting for me, downstairs.
------------------
Still post-rockin' in a free world
