A Warehouse of Souls
Beneath a roof of corrugated sky,
shelves stretch into the haze—
steel sentinels cradling the weight
of repeating cardboard skin.
Sodium lights flicker overhead,
a nervous god with faulty wiring,
casting a pale-yellow glow across the floor.
Refracted rainbows glint
in pooling oil that won't dry.
The air smells of stale rain
buried in the dirt of concrete fields,
and on the tongue
it tastes of metallic memory, oxidized.
A faint click of cooling pipes
syncopates the hum of vents.
Gears scream
ripping through silence,
a warning sound threading the dark.
Conveyor belts drag time,
relentless,
sorting,
without pause.
Surrounded by
pallets stacked high,
of boxes waiting to be read.
Some have dates crossed,
names scratched off—
wrapped and stamped
unclaimed inventory.
Others spill from torn corners,
stained photos—
of metal buckles
and white veils.
I came looking for a box
with a familiar trace—
small handprints,
prayers folded beside lavender wicks,
a letter I forgot I wrote.
I need to know if I’m marked for transit,
or have to stay.
But dust clings to rafters,
settles on shelves,
on forgotten dreams,
gray on gray.
Aisle after aisle,
we could walk forever
and never find our name.
The exit doors seem open.
For the souls on hold,
boxed beneath the cold,
processing signs—
suspended,
longing for the next scan.
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