We've all been molested
By time and space

The lovers have problems
With keeping their place

A head filled with toxins
Colours, fairy tales

They teach us that men
Can make a home inside whales

My message is simple
Don't stand near train tracks

Though everyone does it
So it's time to relax

Speculations of pain
Hurt me enough

Weak to the core
Though I'm told that we're tough

Time stands still for no man

Stop the train ! I want to get off !
If I can't be anything more
Then let me scold and let me scoff
Please now just open up the door

Your pretentious pretensions
Pause and place me inbetween
Take your dreams and nightmares too
I see the truth there in your gleam

Let me off at the next stop , please !
Just let me debark from this strife
I have no need of solicitations
From the perpetrators in my life

Just back away from your misgivings
Keep them all for yourself
I have no use for the falsehoods
So put your book back on the shelf

Here I am; waiting,
Waiting for an old friend
On a deserted Railway Station.
She’s late; knew she would be.
Time behaves differently in
Such public places; very differently.

I stood waiting alone,
Then a gaggle of women
Clattered up the subway.
Stilettos and thick, heeled boots,
Beating out an echoing tattoo,
On the broad, concrete steps.

Now we wait together,
Myself and a Hen Party.
Blending of emotional alloys
Fused together, forming
Excitement; then I see her
And all heads turn to look.

Amongst the flower boxes,
Silence blossoms on the
Platform as my old friend
Glides serenely into the station,
She’s late; knew she would be
Even so, she’s on time for me.

Steam unfurls around her,
Billowing majestic clouds
Crowning this, ‘Queen of
The Rails’, last seen when
I was a boy, now in manhood
Her unsung glory is truly revered.

Steel wheels clatter, a rhythmic
Tattoo, then she draws to a halt.
Old friend from a previous age
Escaping through to this century,
Thronged by beautiful women, I
Smile, and step aboard a true beauty.

©Paul M Chafer 2014

These thoughts run on tracks
that intertwine and crash.

18 white carriages
glide into the station
onto the platform

the hustle and bustle of
people walking in and out
of the automated doors.
some in their own little words,
supplied by the melody
through the little white wires connecting
their ears to their pockets.
some with their phones to their ears,
chatting away.
some just staring into the distance,
waiting for the next exciting thing
in their life to happen.

people sitting on the little green seats
lined up against the walls of the train.
some completely blocked by newspapers,
some sound asleep.

the sound of the rain
hitting the windows
at a 50 degree angle
(pitter-patter)

the sight of you
as i walked in,
with your wide smile
and your eyes transfixed on me.
all handsome with your
dark hair swept to the side.

and as we sat down,
i observed you from the reflection
on the opposite window
observing me.

When I allow myself to think of
the first mornings we spent together,
I think about how you kissed my shoulder
with sleep still in your eyes;

I remember watching the the city blocks
whimsically turn to fields
and back to blocks again
from the train window,
on my way home.
The train rides were never
a clear picture
as much as they were a feeling,
as thoughts of you consumed me.

I thought about your small,
hot apartment,
the grand weight of our wallets,
empty.
The exaggerated love/lust
as our bellies swished,
full with cheap *****.

Contrary to how it sounds,
this is not a love letter
as much as it is a lament for a person
that once meant everything,
and now is another stranger
on crowded city sidewalk.

I no longer yearn to find you
in some corner of the world,
with arms that have again learned  
how to hold me,
no, this is not a love letter.

I just want to think of you sometimes
and hold on to the parts of you
that already felt like they were mine.

Once again,
I try to remember your scent;
there is no use,
it’s already gone.

I think that you only care about the relationship you have with flames and desperation.

You told me once that you got so high off a blunt that you floated up into the sky and tapped danced with Jesus on a cloud.  When I inquired about his appearance, you lite a match off your shoe and nonchalantly said that he looked like the love child of Patrick Swayze and the curly haired Jonas Brother.

I hid your demons under the broken steps that you used to climb to catch the morning train, as I know that you would rather die that feel that suffocated once again. Of course, I still watch you fill your lungs with smoke, but your mother sighs and whispers that you have been improving. I choke on the air you breathe.

You are dying fast, yet this doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest, and you would rather lay in bed and watch your ceiling fan that climb out the window and see the sky. In your defense, the fan is a nice shade of blue, but the morning light is my preference.

You disappeared for a week in July and were labeled a missing person by the government. After you showed up on my doorstep half drunk and *****, I couldn't bare to tell you that I was so relieved that you were gone. I let you inside anyway, because seeing your brown puppy dog eyes makes me wish that I could save you.

I am watching you destroy yourself, and you don't even have the decency to remember my name.

Six trains have gone by since you fell asleep. I hope you heard them in your dreams. I wish I could see your face when you're asleep and your lips are the most innocent. I wish you would have stayed.