Saturday, January 9, 2010

STATION: poetry

Stream of consciousness narrative from roughly 2004. I guess that makes it a poem.


there's a voice in the fog, my head's in the clouds...
i'm on a train to somewhere else.

there's a pretty young thing, a heartbeat away.
my fingers don't quite reach. i'm in a different place.

where the air is clear, and i can finally breathe.
the sky hangs heavy here. i can barely see past the length of my arms. there are faces that wait behind every corner. sad faces, with hollowed- out eyes, and cold, cold skin.

these colours are dull. the sky is grey and blue. your hair is black now, in the charcoal mist, and i can barely see your face.

i have been waiting for years, head in my hands, watching the clouds roll by. i have been biting my nails and holding my tongue, and tasting the bitterness of bile in my mouth.
black clouds across the surface of the street, wash over my feet, roll and billow around me.
i have been waiting for years. my back has grown stiff, my arms cold and tired, on this bench at the station, where the lights grow dark and darker still, and the air is thick and tastes of dust and dead insects.

i wondered where you have been. i wondered if this was how it was meant to end.
but as the train rolled up, none of that mattered anymore, as i stood up slowly, worked the stiffness from my joints and brushed the dust from my arms and legs.

and i walked up the steps and boarded the train and i sat, and the old days began to slip away, and all that matters in the darkness doesn't matter in the light. and as the light overhead flickers in and out, the doors closed behind me, and i begin to forget.

and as the the train pulls away, i hear a sound from somewhere, quiet and almost impossible to understand. maybe, just maybe... but it grows quiet as i leave the station.

there's a voice in the fog, my head's in the clouds...
i'm on a train to somewhere else.
i will sleep 'til morning.