Its                                                                                    
really   |                |                                                            A
nothing  |    EXIT      |                                                          low
more than|                |                                                       rumble
a hallway|                |                                                     –like an
There's all                        The soft hum of lights,                   ocean made 
of what you’d expect.               many rows of plastic                   from churning 
Paint clichéd after the              sheet glowing with                 machines ticking
first corner you’ve turned,           radiant banality;             an insanity away– is
        covered in the light           they fill your            the amelodic underscore  
The          stains and nicks           eyes wholly,          to your muffled footfalls. 
esoteric      from regular, terse        a pleasant         You haven’t seen anyone else 
doorways      traffic. Pious posters      flood of       in passing, becoming a solitary 
that see      emblazoned with pictures     warmth.    Kosmonaut adrift in the cosmos of 
right to      of idyllic deaths. Saints             uniform tiled stars and endless rows
withhold      forever caught in the agony         of doors stretching into infinite ends  
all data      of their martyrdom. The art         You wonder if the original men who had  
on  what      is comforting, it feels old         left their home planet ever saw things 
could be      ,a friend that you’ve known         ending up like this; could their plans 
past the      well over the storied years         been swayed if they knew the countless
barrier,      or like a comrade, never to          galaxies before them would come to be
opting        share anything but knowing            host to lives such as this, that the 
to hide       glances of apt solidarity.             children of their children too many 
behind a      The carpet is covered in                 times over would be fated to walk                   
plastic,      beige patterns, looped                    blank halls and to dwell in puny  
oblique,      uniformity, making it                      cities, never to revel in the  
plate at      feel quite sickening                         beauty of a horizon unknown?
eye line.     and, if the stained                           If told, what would they do?
A simple      blemish before you                             Take pride in the progress?
group of      is proof, that’s                                 Weep for the wayward kin?
numerals      a usual feeling                                   Continue despite it all?
all that      .At this point                                     The posters say nothing
is there      you appear to                                       ,they tell you not of 
 between      no longer be                                          who these saints are   
the door      reading the                                             but instead of who
and loss      signs put                                                they have become.
fully of      up, legs                                                  Gods incarnate,
any use,      mapping                                                    death itself is
a fading      routes                                                      life anew. Yet   
oblivion      known                                                        no longer man
,with no      fully                                                          losing what 
relevance     .                                                                they are.