Outsider writings.

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Flop house.

Instinct opens leaden eyes
Sunken chest heaves a breath
Still here! He sighs
Sight pained with consciousness.

Reaching for his anaesthetic
Rolling a cigarette
Burning time in increments
He inhales to forget.

Walls of nicotine stain
Glow with an orange hue
Many memories exhaled
A life wafting from view.

Grey swirls drift and float
A metaphor of his being
Angel beams cut the smoke
Through his window of seeing.

Stepping out into a gloomy hallway
Absorbed into perspired unkempt odours
Passing cells of similar lives
From behind each door now stirs.

Forms uncurling to emerge
From their chrysalis overcoats
Cracking bones forcing groans
As timbers do on old boats.

Last stop residents, transient lifers
Wringing the remnants of existence
These inmates of poverty row
Invisible to wealthier subsistence.

Spewing from a yawning mouth
Of a once grand reception
These anonymous creatures
Undetermined of any direction.

Colourful ladies stand their pitches
Decorating doorway and corridor
Adorned in this flawed jewellery
A hotel's pretence of days now over.

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Flop House.