there is an aimless sense of
wandering, a trip on an empty
train, floor awash with foot prints
streaked under the seats and here
I am clinging to the handrails, but
like a dream the corners of my vision
are fuzzy and I fight to be unaware
and somewhere from the end of
the car, horses stamp their
hooves, all lined up
behind red stanchions
they aren't bulls but they
breathe like I am red, and
somehow this is all curiously
distant, sauf pour the speed of
the train, the only thing that is
unnerving is the ways in which
I move and blink and how i am
made up of seven billion billion
billion atoms but this number
seems so inconsequential and
small compared to how lost
I feel and how many times
a day I ask myself what
I am doing.
What am I doing?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
there is an aimless sense of
wandering, a trip on an empty
train, floor awash with foot prints
streaked under the seats and here
I am clinging to the handrails, but
like a dream the corners of my vision
are fuzzy and I fight to be unaware
and somewhere from the end of
the car, horses stamp their
hooves, all lined up
behind red stanchions
they aren't bulls but they
breathe like I am red, and
somehow this is all curiously
distant, sauf pour the speed of
the train, the only thing that is
unnerving is the ways in which
I move and blink and how i am
made up of seven billion billion
billion atoms but this number
seems so inconsequential and
small compared to how lost
I feel and how many times
a day I ask myself what
I am doing.
What am I doing?
(c) Brooke Otto 2014.
