Blog Archive

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

At the Station

Time tables turn at the station
and history repeats itself
every hour, on the dot,
whistles are blown and
hankerchiefs torn from
longing hands by a beasts
smoking winds.

Goodbyes are lost in
a confusion of noise and
stolen time as gleaming
engines roll their wheels
forward on tracks laid by
broken backs and spirits.
They knew pain enough
to fill every station,
old and new.

Eyes watch, through a veil
of salted tears, until the last
glimpse of their loved ones
speeding chariot of coal and
flames, through the trees,
has been seen. Feet are turned
away, pulled away as if from
cement casts that held them in
a window of history, minutes
of grief are swept under
their minds carpet as hearts
move on.

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