The Train Station.
midnight iron, snaking out like specters fingers, then melting in the mist
i would like to think their odyssey is over, and that they welcome the abyss
as tender as a kiss, these shingles and their watermarks - they speak to me
almost secretly ... a hundred years gone, a hundred years of grief to be
and what unsung tales have these puffs of brisk-departing smoke imbibed?
what many stories could be told and why - do open eyes behold them - blind?
those ochre tiles, tanned to character-perfection, by nervous cigarettes
scratches, dirt and hints of sweat; the signatures of phantoms, in swirls and pirouettes.
a beggars nose gulps coffee steam - snobbily, from her sumptuous throne of trash
no gumption's prone to last, but no one thought to tell Her Majesty; she couldn't stoke the ash
i guess it's a macabre song, this with such a gulfing jaw, that challenges one
to turn one's back on the Sun ... then chase the wheels of a pram as it tractors along
or amass with the throng - no better coat than the Rorschach smudge of busy strangers
no distance greater; backwards, forward, backwards, forward; forward with the width of vapor
i watch the tired carriages, shrugging along their shouldered clouds of people
eighty tons of frozen faces, homeless-nameless ... and I can't see one ounce of evil
i think, maybe, they're just like me ... you know? - trying to unravel truth
about life, about death - but ... what the Hell do I know ...? I'm merely passing through
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