I verse on the tracks of desolation, collecting the fares
of misinterpreted views. Distorted rails nearly derail
my motion onwards, the baggage of my life is strewn
in plain view.

A journey is only a fluctuation of tendencies,
Never knowing the repetitiveness of coincidental
meetings. I'm a hobo in a suit, trailing features of soiled
seats that's have memories of words spilt on them.

I lose myself in momentary views that like paper
trails flickering  show me different afflictions outside
a window of opportunity that lasts moments.
I'm in a can of sardines waiting for my release.