Train from London
Shunting,
Crawling,
Rolling,
Moving at last,
Going back to my new home.
London was a little more personal this time,
A little more familiar,
The apartment made it seem friendly,
The work, not done but drink,
Drink with my friend was fun.
Sometimes you have an idea of how things should go,
But mostly,
People like us let things go.
I think that is best.
Let the tide of circumstance just guide you,
After all, we are just passengers on this one great natural oraganic gesture,
Why let our jealous, selfish, egotistical will dictate over natures perfection?
A window to a Kitchen smuggled into a loft,
Only on this London leaving train,
Can I see these habitat secrets in such a light.
Forlorn...
Grey sky,
Dark clouds,
Smallest hint of sun breaking through,
But that hint comes accross in these lines,
As far more than that,
It is not.
It is practically dark,
yet only 4.28pm, a cold late February afternoon.
White painted brick,
Tracks overlap,
Another Train speeds past like a startled flock of roosting birds.
All these bodies and their lives,
Like HGV trucks on a busy motorway,
Destination unknown,
Noisy and bold,
Contents secret,
These people, heavy in unspoken lifetimes of emotion,
Regret, Intention, Vieled & Secret.
Oh, the blind dance of social conformity,
All it's pointless fears,
Like spies,
We secretly eye each other in the carriage,
Occasionally,
Eyes catching glimpses & repel like poles,
Unable to hold a glance lest we acknowledge our natural curiousity,
What a social crime to commit!
Tie squewhiff Book reader,
Mother dragging daughter,
Baby Cryer,
Well-dressed, young, single mother,
Singing Kids,
& Suddenly,
A stranger beside me sits,
I lift my bag and move along,
Now resting my book atop my bag,
Growing more conscious of inquisitive eyes,
Does he know he is now locked forever in these lines?
The train jolts on,
Long, cold, green moss-ridden brick,
Lonely, out in the air,
We draw onward.
Pidgeons roost on a roof,
"The next station is East Croydon" booms the voice like a slammed door in church,
& I run out of steam as someone's armrest squeels & I take a sip,
Minds deep in thought,
Of others, and moments past of intense wholeness,
Love & history,
Future and the wealth of inevitability,
As this train draws on.
Shunting,
Crawling,
Rolling,
Moving at last,
Going back to my new home.
London was a little more personal this time,
A little more familiar,
The apartment made it seem friendly,
The work, not done but drink,
Drink with my friend was fun.
Sometimes you have an idea of how things should go,
But mostly,
People like us let things go.
I think that is best.
Let the tide of circumstance just guide you,
After all, we are just passengers on this one great natural oraganic gesture,
Why let our jealous, selfish, egotistical will dictate over natures perfection?
A window to a Kitchen smuggled into a loft,
Only on this London leaving train,
Can I see these habitat secrets in such a light.
Forlorn...
Grey sky,
Dark clouds,
Smallest hint of sun breaking through,
But that hint comes accross in these lines,
As far more than that,
It is not.
It is practically dark,
yet only 4.28pm, a cold late February afternoon.
White painted brick,
Tracks overlap,
Another Train speeds past like a startled flock of roosting birds.
All these bodies and their lives,
Like HGV trucks on a busy motorway,
Destination unknown,
Noisy and bold,
Contents secret,
These people, heavy in unspoken lifetimes of emotion,
Regret, Intention, Vieled & Secret.
Oh, the blind dance of social conformity,
All it's pointless fears,
Like spies,
We secretly eye each other in the carriage,
Occasionally,
Eyes catching glimpses & repel like poles,
Unable to hold a glance lest we acknowledge our natural curiousity,
What a social crime to commit!
Tie squewhiff Book reader,
Mother dragging daughter,
Baby Cryer,
Well-dressed, young, single mother,
Singing Kids,
& Suddenly,
A stranger beside me sits,
I lift my bag and move along,
Now resting my book atop my bag,
Growing more conscious of inquisitive eyes,
Does he know he is now locked forever in these lines?
The train jolts on,
Long, cold, green moss-ridden brick,
Lonely, out in the air,
We draw onward.
Pidgeons roost on a roof,
"The next station is East Croydon" booms the voice like a slammed door in church,
& I run out of steam as someone's armrest squeels & I take a sip,
Minds deep in thought,
Of others, and moments past of intense wholeness,
Love & history,
Future and the wealth of inevitability,
As this train draws on.
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