50

First a rhythm smelling of blood and sweat
Of people and places you'd rather forget
Of sickly black incense and last night's beer
And "what the hell am I doing here?"

Then voices harsh and passion filled
Sing of little boys whose dreams are killed
Of empty garages where young lovers dance
Forgetting the world in their stale summer romance

And guitars that have seen knives slicing through skin
Unleashing thick crimson silk to stain arms too thin
And shattered old mirrors between thick locked doors
And little girls dancing barefoot on dark and dirty floors

Then the damaged sing too as the song slowly dies
While large, grubby hands slide up smooth white thighs
And the silence, it smothers the last lingering sound
Like the final crushed flower falling defeated to the ground

And all this I hear and all this I see
As the last song plays on my scratched old CD
Each note bound to a precious memory
As my life passes through me