Fleeting stations
through which all things must pass.
Trains mercilessly invade
plans carefully laid,
scattered
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.
Time,
grave schoolmaster
correcting with sticks,
confronts the nervous with ticks.
The pressure to decide
when to move
when to abide
by an almost religious form,
crucified.
The mechanism’s in place,
the dominant figure
in this transient theatre
is the clockface.
Schedules shuffle
with spinning metal
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Hey, thank you for the reblog!
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