Oct 2013
He was making old people.
Angry old people walking around in spite.
The train sits on the bridge, the bridge wonders.
It’s like a simple gust of wind.
It will rest on dead trains.
A stone retaining wall supporting a builder of empires.
The ghosts turn in their graves.
The air ever so slightly biting your cheeks.
A beautiful thing passes; it will never look the same.
A mirror shatters.
Angry old people walking around in spite.
The train sits on the bridge, the bridge wonders.
It’s like a simple gust of wind.
It will rest on dead trains.
A stone retaining wall supporting a builder of empires.
The ghosts turn in their graves.
The air ever so slightly biting your cheeks.
A beautiful thing passes; it will never look the same.
A mirror shatters.
For this poem, I took a section of my free-writing and broke it up in to single sentences. I then ONLY deleted words and phrases I did not want to come up with this poem. My creative writing teacher had me do this. And it was awesome.
