In the corpse of a factory, far past the day, Where Eldway breathes rot and steel decay, The hour strikes one—then comes the flood, Of pretty young fiends with glitter and blood. They twist and they turn like their bodies are flame, Their smiles all cracked, their stories the same. A thousand lost souls in designer disguise, With pupils like voids and God in their eyes. They call it Oblivion. No joke, no jest. The name fits the sin clinging tight to your chest. It’s not for the meek. Not cheap, not fair. But flash the right smile, and they’ll let you in there. Through iron-clad doors and the teeth of the night, Where nothing is wrong if it feels kinda right. It’s louder than trauma, and bright like a sin, And once you get pulled in—you won’t crawl out again. The lights strobe in pulses violent and fast, Painting sins in neon that were never meant to last. No guards, no rules, just shadows that see, And secrets exchanged like illicit currency. The desperate come here to forget their name, The rich come to sweat and pretend they feel shame. You can buy joy, lose a shoe, kiss a stranger’s teeth, And cry in a hallway marked “Management” beneath. But sometimes, just sometimes, a girl in the light, Finds you in daydreams and pulls you to night. She leans in close, all glitter and grin, And whispers the phrase that lets devils in: “I’ll see you in Oblivion,” she hums like a spell, Then drifts through the haze like the queen of some hell. A prophet of poison in ten-inch black boots, Leaving heartbreak and bass drops deep in her roots. Now. You’re here. You stepped through the gate. No turning back. Not now. Too late. The sound? A freight train fused with sex. The smell? Sweat and perfume—synthetic and vexed. Bodies collide like stars in collapse, Half of them dancing, the others in traps. The poles aren’t for profit—they’re altars, they gleam. The girls on them pray through a ketamine dream. She finds you. Of course. Through glitter and dust, Like fate had a map and a primal lust. She smiles with madness, her pupils wide moons, Says she’s thought of you nightly beneath pink-lit tunes. Then a pill on her tongue. Just one. Not a lie. Maybe it's love. Or maybe you’ll die. She spins with a moan like the start of a fight, “Come on, baby. Wreck me tonight.”
