with a million rounds,
the train, like a tongue,
rolls out of the mouth
like people,
and onto the ground it crashed.
a massive hug to the
dirty concrete heart
and the last carriage
made a pact with the air as it
landed halfway, mid-air,
with strings attached to its
wheels,
halfway-unhinged,
an origami left
with its ancient creases,
and it is desperate to
wage war upon
noises and things and
pans and iron axes,
and bang, and screech, and
kill
kill
kill.
beckoning you into the wheel,
with strings clawed into the
skin, like silver
linings meant for you
but we twist it around our finger
all to hard,
it hugged around too tight
and we are shredded paper,
too many wrinkles and creases
and tear-stains
on your
whatever paper.
we then, twist, oh we twist,
twist others into a slow,
uncertain dance ritual.
and i dont know what to say,
to think to say,
to tie my words to those strings
and throw it out into
the open air, dangling like a
wheel, another
form of a
roulette wheel,
and then what?
let it dance?
see if it falls and hugs
and then breaks,
or then, it breaks
them.