I want to be the echo in an empty building,
One with creaking stairs and crumbling paper,
Lining the walls of a run down city, sleeping.

Wrinkled skin and cold, dark eyes become me,
In warped mirrors of gasoline and shattered glass,
My vision twists between myself above and those below.

I can feel the waves of thundering people beneath me,
Moving in uneven rumbles of footsteps and voices,
They carry bodies heavy from living into my rooms.

I want to be the throbbing heat of a crowded building,
Holding hollow skin against my stained walls,
Carrying them through the cleansing waves of our dirty city.

I can feel the softness of their labored nights,
In the cacophony of their shallow cries I understand,
I want to be the cradle and the coffin.