through which all things must pass.
Trains mercilessly invade
plans carefully laid,
like tangents in transit,
you forget where they connect,
waylaid in this depot
with barely a moment to reflect
that thoughts and emotions
are only outposts along the tracks.
Drawn from out of cracks in the earth
like an expectant birth,
the womb bulges,
stretched to the till
everything emerging from tunnels,
like insects from an anthill,
into the rythmic enigma of change
that you’ll attempt to arrange
into a coherent design.
There is a stationary map
where the motion gets trapped
in the riddle of its lines.
correcting with sticks,
confronts the nervous with ticks.
The pressure to decide
when to move
when to abide
by an almost religious form,
The mechanism’s in place,
the dominant figure
in this transient theatre
is the clockface.
with spinning metal
voices rattle off another destination
to numb ears conditioned not to question,
weary to respond in turn
and form lines.
All are locked in their own depot,
void of context and without bearings,
amorphous and at the same time unique,
strung out on the in-between
they wait to be transported somewhere new
in the waking dream.
Waiting to be transported by one bullet
shot out of a chamber shrouded in steam.
Catch the melancholy sparks of fleeting sunsets.
Time no longer lingers
but grips with twisted fingers,
uprooting the moss that grows in-between.
There’s a scent you associate
with a clinging taking hold.
Words and feelings
unfold at the binario
so you go
into a life dwarfed by infinity.
The sky, like a fallen mirror was the sea.
The clouds were shattered pieces of memory,
even times the machinery
had you pinned,
you always knew you’d win in the end.
Wherever restlessness puts you
must begin from this depot.