Inside a bank everything is grey

Mahogany bureaus are inked with vacancy.
Boisterous gold chokes on its green taste
And moldy gold leaves my taste buds punctured
Like a collapsed hot air balloon
That threatens to sink below the ocean floor

The waiting room- a plethora of vacancy
Leaves me with an unsettling taste
My brain cluttered and my wrists punctured.
The anesthetic tells me to breathe in the balloon
But all I see is the carpet of blood on the floor
And an imminent tombstone of feeble grey

I’m choking on air- its vile taste
The lungs of Father whose heart I punctured
His hope higher than a helium balloon
And my reality plummeting beyond hell’s floor
Heaven’s white the same as grey-
Drought sealing my fate of spiritual vacancy

Dreams expecting to be punctured
The way a ceiling snares a buttery balloon
Before it melts, bruising the marble floor.
Spring yellow decomposing to winter’s grey
A vicious cycle of unbearable vacancy
Leaving me to swim and sin in bitter taste.

Vitality resting on a coiled balloon,
Burning footsteps insulating the floor,
Familiar faces and a pallor of grey
Their hearts filled with thick vacancy
A cloying scent and a saccharide taste
So sweet that my speech is punctured

And now as the mold sits on my stomach floor
And as gold turns from green to grey
I cease to live in frayed vacancy.
I purge myself of copper and its murky taste.
And my lungs, once perforated and punctured,
Now flood like a red balloon.