Laden down with baggage,a
suitcase full of books and
Mr Babbage,
sits tight in a polished metal box with an
outlook looking in on everything he ever sees.

A glimmering of light slides in and
fades into the station
where I'm waiting for the train to come
but hope is not salvation and if
this is the new nativity
there's someone here where I should be
and I am not alone.

There's a porter,Mr Porter,
he's kind of short but he is smiling
and the light becomes much stronger
as he nears the place I'm waiting
but I've waited many times and seen
the crossings of too many lines
which blur in shiny steely strands,to
stretch out tiny golden hands which hold me
in this place.

I am a face unknown, a man outgrown
and hope is not salvation
this station is a metaphor
I don't know why I'm waiting, maybe
for the light to further me in
some sweet education
where the teaching of Apocrypha
is opened up,
please let that be.

Morning shakes me wide awake and
I become one more earthquake among
the many tremors and
the trembling in the temples,
I shall ride the storms
and surf the clouds which shroud my
Earth in mystery,
until
the truth arrives.