Landmarks II: Slamified

I know of a ledge that overlooks the wet walkways,
Past the pile of bricks and glass hanging down beneath my feet,
And into the distant, lampless fields.
It is a place for the ones like me who only desire the smallest of things
Like hearing the sound of their breath
Or seeing the motions of clouds
Whether from the sky or cigarettes
Or to forget that tomorrow everyone will be awake.
There is no one else around
But a few names etched
To keep you company in the night.
The trafficking voices in your head are put to sleep
If but for a few moments.

A certain Eli scratched his name on concrete
Just near the edge of the 30 foot drop,
Where my idle body now lays flat along the border
My left knee pointing towards a Gemini star.

This is where Eli remembered the face
Of an old and distant Nana,
Her feeble eyelids awaiting their deadline.
This is an aging homeland
Where life is less coveted than youth.
He knows that many don’t deserve to have
What they think matters most.
But it won’t stop him from savoring
What could be the last few words
Whispered from his loved one,
Despite the hours that separate them.

I lay here on this bed of cement
Peaking down the dark meadows
And this cigarette is only getting in the way now.
The lamp on the wall below me illuminates the carvings
Of those who, like Eli,
Were gifted with an hour to realign,
A place to be with no one but the names,
A breathe of relief,
And some freakin peace.
As my tribute to the pacifying stillness of this ledge right here
I grab something sharp (to write with, of course,)
I find a blank space
And I voice my mark on stone.