The Redrum Rat Race

Dull red-grays and blue shades create a facade of dismal dismay all the while a pale flood of limelight cascades down between the fan blades across this empty space. Rusting pipes and cobalt lights contrast the puke stains of a past horror filled, liquid spilled, senses killed fright [day] night. The soundtrack to this hollow city consists of old air-conditioned flats, the hum of poison: children of the oil drum, and the whispered whimper of the paper bag princess and her filtered issues through tissues and down the halls through thin drywall. Sprawled out across the length of an old mattress; the only place I have to lay my head and forget about all that has come to pass. I digress.

The colors begin to fade now; my face and seasons change now. This chalky residue resonates into minds of the obituaries of future times. The television screams at me all about my consumer priority, all the while I just smile knowing that I have left this old dance hall for a better place - the Prince's Ball. Choices made, perseverance laid out this new straight. All I have to do is place one heel in front of toe, repeat, and shuffle. Focus on the ribbon arched ahead high above the reaches of the inner city murder alleys, of which I know all too well.

A hammer comes down. The chamber fires and I explode into forward motion with fervent desire. This rat race has become the greatest race of all time. By His grace alone I will place.