Thin, 2x4 inch plastic card, Crowne Plaza.
So disposable, yet I can’t dispose the memories, the card.
A bond of brothers, a room of restless warriors.
A key to happiness, carelessness, freedom.
A key to our thoughts, deeper than the tunnels of New York City.
Because this key opened our doors,
Figuratively and literally,
Mentally and musically.
At the end we had they key,
But we lost the room.
But that’s the way hotels work, you see.
Every room is a carbon copy.
The room doesn’t matter, the room is the same.
The memories are what we hold with us, with the key.
The room we can’t keep, it reset when we left.