You walk. The floor beneath your feet
magnifies each groan and creak
yet fails to drown the droning in
your head. How often did you win?
Or better still, accept defeat?
It's memory - it's bittersweet.
It's half forgotten, incomplete.
It's left-behind abandoned sin
you walk the floor
remembering. You're feeling weak -
replaying deaths you failed to cheat.
Recall the sirens and the din
and feel the sweat against your skin.
No longer do you ride the street.
You walk the floor.