luminaire

Concrete, lights, smoke. The gentle, soothing emptyness that is the parking lot.

Sitting in the headlights of my car, I reflect upon the expanse of harsh ground in my veiw. No one can hate you here. No one can think less of you. The unyeilding curbs, and ever-watchful streetlamps feel neither your happiness or your sorrows. It is here my friends, that my best hours are spent.

These rocks have soaked my blood, these lights have stood witness to my tears, and this smoke tells stories I cannot begin to recall. I feel time slow down, I feel it all wash away as the rain begins to fall. My headlights outline the shape of the coming storm; the raindrops come down mercifully. I feel them fall down my face, mixing with the salt of my own tears, just as the water washes the oil and dirt from the asphalt abyss. Here, everything is made new.

The raindrops soon drown out the voices in my head, jumping from parking spot to parking spot; I am at peace. The thunder strikes, as I wait for the whirlwind. The parking lot absorbs it all with the stoich face of a Royal Guard. It shows no sympathy, no emotion in its work. It just is, no more, no less.

The rainclouds recede as the morning approaches; their work done in this town. They have cleansed another soul; healed another wound. The scars on my arms and hands are less now, but the memory still fresh. The solitude found within this paved paradise may be something few understand, and I hope it stays that way. It's nights like these that I value most.

Here I have emptied my soul, on these cold grounds. Here I have found new paths to walk. Here I have felt so much. I thank you. Until next we meet, keep your silent vigil. May the rain keep good company; may it wash your filth away, as it did mine.