Buried Significance

Cruising in the backseat of a black vehicle under one's own control.
Figures once thought strong would now fold.
What's the rush?
The villain does his best work slow we are all getting old.
A different new bus comes every 15 minutes why chase shit you had to flush?
Insides stay warm as born into with a burning red heart outsides become dead cold.
Eyes touch the streets with a grim stare at a time of night.
These days advantage is taken of those who have nice intentions something is not right.
No hands are holding me from entering
those rooms that were always present.
Doors were never locked the moment never gave chances to check.
Till right now.

Poem