I ride a train that will not name a single station,
Its windows loop the same unfinished narration,
Each mile a proof that cancels prior demonstration,
A theorem built from motion without destination.
The conductor speaks in calm, recursive tones,
Announcing stops that never quite condense to zones,
A map unfolds yet only multiplies the knowns,
While every answer seeds more intricate unknowns.
I pace the aisle—yet distance will not reconcile,
For every step returns me by a mirrored file,
As if the track were drawn in some perverse defile,
A Möbius of will that folds me back a while.
Then I disembark—at least, I think I do—
Onto a bus whose architecture won’t construe
An exit point: no doors, no breach, no avenue,
Just sealed equations humming where escape withdrew.
Its engine drones in undecipherable refrain,
A language halfway formed between machine and brain,
Where time dilates but never offers any gain,
And forward turns to sideways, sideways into same.
The passengers are calm in ways I can’t defend,
They read the air as if it were a text to mend,
Each page asserts the journey has no need to end,
That stasis is the curve on which all motions bend.
I try to mark a difference—here versus before—
But every metric bleeds into a common core,
A paradox that logic cannot quite restore,
Where one plus one insists on being something more.
No walls collapse, no tyrant voice demands I stay,
Yet all departures subtly reorganize to “may,”
A system closed not by a lock but by a way
Of thinking space itself prefers to disobey.
And so I sit between departure and arrival,
A state that mimics both yet cancels their survival,
Where sanity becomes a question of archival—
What counts as real in circuits of recursive trial?
If there’s an end, it hides beyond the need to find,
For seeking is the loop that keeps me here confined,
A train, a bus, a thought I cannot leave behind—
A moving cage constructed out of my own mind.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 12:59 AM UTC
I ride a train that will not name a single station,
Its windows loop the same unfinished narration,
Each mile a proof that cancels prior demonstration,
A theorem built from motion without destination.
The conductor speaks in calm, recursive tones,
Announcing stops that never quite condense to zones,
A map unfolds yet only multiplies the knowns,
While every answer seeds more intricate unknowns.
I pace the aisle—yet distance will not reconcile,
For every step returns me by a mirrored file,
As if the track were drawn in some perverse defile,
A Möbius of will that folds me back a while.
Then I disembark—at least, I think I do—
Onto a bus whose architecture won’t construe
An exit point: no doors, no breach, no avenue,
Just sealed equations humming where escape withdrew.
Its engine drones in undecipherable refrain,
A language halfway formed between machine and brain,
Where time dilates but never offers any gain,
And forward turns to sideways, sideways into same.
The passengers are calm in ways I can’t defend,
They read the air as if it were a text to mend,
Each page asserts the journey has no need to end,
That stasis is the curve on which all motions bend.
I try to mark a difference—here versus before—
But every metric bleeds into a common core,
A paradox that logic cannot quite restore,
Where one plus one insists on being something more.
No walls collapse, no tyrant voice demands I stay,
Yet all departures subtly reorganize to “may,”
A system closed not by a lock but by a way
Of thinking space itself prefers to disobey.
And so I sit between departure and arrival,
A state that mimics both yet cancels their survival,
Where sanity becomes a question of archival—
What counts as real in circuits of recursive trial?
If there’s an end, it hides beyond the need to find,
For seeking is the loop that keeps me here confined,
A train, a bus, a thought I cannot leave behind—
A moving cage constructed out of my own mind.
This one is newer. Wrote it maybe a year or two ago.