The floors have seen up more skirts than many of the sleazy boys that roam these halls.
Dried coffee creamer sits unassumingly on the table,
beckoning the Vegas nerve at the end of the night.
The silky dust travels further and further into the
depths of the oblivious mind.
Suspended in ambivalence,
the greatest potentials of my time dwindle into the wine-stained carpets
as the folded bills cling to life in their palms.
Girls live on their knees,
passing out favors like love for another quick fix.
Straws line the tables like the men awaiting,
and I want to blow them all.
I want to be inside, swimming around, reeking havoc
amongst their disintegrating minds.
The laughter slowly fades with the sound of the radio,
spewing out dust, like snow on Christmas morning that drifts into
the air and falls upon the innocent victims.
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