The patient ticking of the clock,
the set of a train station,
nothing specific, but what we make it
out to be. Such quiet significance.
The train finaly arrives, its dark shape
bringing excesive light to the darkness
surrounding, its doors sigh from
traveling the same road for this long.
I sit by the window, like always,
watching the scenery pass me by,
only cold, moonlit shadows are out
there, but that's all I'd see either way.
Like being late for a childhood reunion,
that hardness in the throat, nervous hands,
the ticking of the watch too tight to your
pulse and nothing but time to throw away.
Author notes
I won't accept any critique (nor praise) for this one.
Comments
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its doors sigh from
traveling the same road for this long.
thats all i'm saying..
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