I feel
the burn in my chest,
as the sunny dream chops its edges
I run happy warming up in La vita è bella,
while the soles of my feet are burning
into the dark earth. Who cares? only
into the dark earth roots grow,
all lilac is still there at the Moscow Metro, while illusion succumbs to temptation running faster and harder,
the underworld has a life of its own,
a life of greater depth and purity, while
my eyes touch the cold striking murals, and
the book falls on the
Whisper

Your words create vivid imagery
Making the prelude of a conscious mind
Pensive in doubt traveling a circular journey
But, the poem is just an autobiography
Of how I am so lonely
In front of my inner child

When my sister sits on the train
She loves people watching
And she watches the murals go by
Like sunsets and rises
Of new days
My sister does not dwell on the tracks
When we walk to the train.
They terrify her
She runs past them,
She is anxious and evening and morning.
The train is a path to the next day
I have never seen someone dwell
On the train tracks
Waiting for a train to come
To dissolve the path to the next day
And leave them dead
But I wonder
If that one who passed yesterday
Was once terrified of train tracks
And if they ever rode the train
Before there were murals
On a path to the next day.