Concrete Levels

The air was thick, like soup, and tasted of exhaust.

Fluorescent lights, a sickly yellow, lost

in the damp concrete, reflections like oil slicks.

Ramps spiraled down, a series of bad tricks.

Each level, a deeper layer of dread,

where cars sat heavy, like unspoken things said

then taken back, or never quite voiced.

A cold, low hum, the air itself rejoiced

in its own weight, pressing down hard.

Just a quick trip, a simple pharmacy card.

But the smell, it clings, a metallic sting.

And the echo, of footsteps, of a small ring

of keys, magnified, then gone.

Leaving you in the grey, before the dawn.

Wondering what else this place had swallowed.

And what dark thoughts its concrete followed.