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rz-earnestPoems
In a Victorian train station, Amonsgt a plowed tile floor Of long brown benches, I sat: a brass statue. I stood in the waiting room Watching the travelers scurry About, keeping up in their own Little rat race. They would walk around Through the rows of benches, Looking at me, or the windows, Or the clocks. I would sit in my space amongst The benches, in my shaft of light That came down from the arches In the ceiling, thinking I was content. Minutes would turn to hours, Hours to days, days to seasons Time after time. And then -- You came. You were so like me: an Almost brass statue; a not-once Person, gilded over in a Seemingly perfect pose. They sat you right next to Me; we were like two sides Of an old coin, spinning in An empty space of the station. Your silence was plenty for me. I no longer looked at the Scurriers and travelers, but Instead on you, us, together. In all the room in a vast station I was fortunate enough to Have you placed perfectly Next to me. Me. But it wasn't to last. The men Came to haul to around: to Kiosks and platforms and Other waiting areas. Then. . . I became the fidgeter. The seasons broke down, to days Minutes seconds moments, Moments without you. And when you came around Again we both delighted in the Sunlight through the arches and Each others inevitable silence. And when the station closed, You never had to move again. There was no where left to move you, No more emptiness to fill. So they set us in a park -- by black Benches with pigeons instead of Trains. Together we got to watch The minutes turn to days, and in Turn seasons. I never waited again.
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Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
Waiting Stations
In a Victorian train station, Amonsgt a plowed tile floor Of long brown benches, I sat: a brass statue. I stood in the waiting room Watching the travelers scurry About, keeping up in their own Little rat race. They would walk around Through the rows of benches, Looking at me, or the windows, Or the clocks. I would sit in my space amongst The benches, in my shaft of light That came down from the arches In the ceiling, thinking I was content. Minutes would turn to hours, Hours to days, days to seasons Time after time. And then -- You came. You were so like me: an Almost brass statue; a not-once Person, gilded over in a Seemingly perfect pose. They sat you right next to Me; we were like two sides Of an old coin, spinning in An empty space of the station. Your silence was plenty for me. I no longer looked at the Scurriers and travelers, but Instead on you, us, together. In all the room in a vast station I was fortunate enough to Have you placed perfectly Next to me. Me. But it wasn't to last. The men Came to haul to around: to Kiosks and platforms and Other waiting areas. Then. . . I became the fidgeter. The seasons broke down, to days Minutes seconds moments, Moments without you. And when you came around Again we both delighted in the Sunlight through the arches and Each others inevitable silence. And when the station closed, You never had to move again. There was no where left to move you, No more emptiness to fill. So they set us in a park -- by black Benches with pigeons instead of Trains. Together we got to watch The minutes turn to days, and in Turn seasons. I never waited again.
rz-earnest
Written by
rz-earnest
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
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