You could be facing puke brown walls,

back to the cage bars and booted key holders,

envisioning apertures,

sunlight piercing the dank air,

and dirty, fluorescent, flickering dying light.

 

And you might lie in a meadow,

floating atop a bed of purple coneflower, fireweed, buttercup, and chicory,

rehearsing scenes,

screams and fists,

behind closed eyes, reliving it all in an acid-gut and brimstone mind.

 

Or you can sit among urban blight,

cracked walls, concrete barriers, painted baby blue hope,

hooded against daylight,

slumped over a sucking screen,

missing signs, like a diamond in an addiction wall.