Hell
Hell is a corner street bar.
Monochromatic.
Rust colored smoke
And dimly lit pool tables.
An elderly woman sits behind a microphone,
Timing her words to the clack of the cue ball scratch.
The bartender stares at his customers,
Swirling a rag around the inside
Of a spotless shot glass.
There’s a story here,
In red eyes and monotony,
But no one likes to write a tragedy.
Between the cracks of the creaking wooden floors
You’ll hear a sickly, taunting voice,
Reminding you “No one’s leaving.”
Sitting on an unsteady bar stool,
Looking out tobacco blackened windows,
The sullen can remember their sins.
And the once famous woman sings a song of togetherness,
To the fallen apart.
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