Blood On The Tracks
It spoke in rhythmic transgressions, lifted from the dotted line. It held. It fell.
Polka dots made up of tiny horizontal lines, intersecting with vertical peers.
Overindulging on the semblance of fact, just to seem like they’d grown up a bit.
Self-engrossing indoctrinations to be preached out and blown over…for the rabble it was.
“When something’s not right, it’s wrong.”
Wide-eyed on sleep craved incognizance. It had all gone on too long.
They tried to force their hand, critiquing structure through the veil of a cabaret roused in the liveliest of their rooms.
Stormy shores swept to sea lit calm as the doorframe shook.
Set for a strut, intent on curbing this freshly acquired sensationalism.
Gravity logs its presence through rain dropped conviction…a steam engine sounds off in the distance...finality.