Level B2

The concrete smelled of piss and oil,

a bitter tang, no soft recoil.

Yellow pillars, grimy, bold,

a silent story to be told.

We drove down slow, a winding track,

no green outside, no turning back.

The air was thick, a metallic sting,

the sick hum of everything.

B2, B2, a number on the wall,

a waiting place,

a shadowed stall.

Antiseptic, exhaust fumes fought,

a memory, fiercely caught.

The chill was deep, it never left,

a promise broken, life bereft.