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ryn Nov 2014
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I|   \
I|   /
  I|   . >
   I|     \
    I|      /  
   I|      >
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•you found
a **key
that wasn't yours
•brazenly opening and entering
boarded doors•pardon this intrusion,
i do so unwillingly•although i only
have myself                 to blame for
not treading this path,
ryn Jan 2015
             *the *future is...a tornado of uncertain-
          ty• a swirling vortex, in its centre is
me•such power and speed, can ne-
ver see•can never foretell, it's hid-  
den debris•like clockwork, it will        
   make contact•by the second, bra-        
cing for next impact•the past is...      
  yet another•wild winds that echo      
     my mistakes as reminder•this twis-         
      ter within...tearing with no remo-    
           rse•destroying confident strong-
             holds, breaking feebly boarded
           doors•can't ease the
    en from the inside•won't stop beating heart had
        died•the present is...only this  
   frail little body•fighting huge 
battles that come incessantly  
  •fending off the future, con-        
    taining the past•not know-            
ing how long.......this disas-       
ter would last•but I'm still      
   here.....still holding integ-         
   rity......•still fighting this       
war waged in history's        
folly•will i be settl-
ed? will the winds
ever abate?•
will i ever
      come to    
will i
Zeeb Jul 2018
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall,  Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell

I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within

She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
****'s agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention

The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong

When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow

Let's set now a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***

Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for  ice-cream"
slay Sep 2018
Pleasure remains, but so does the pain, I’m going insane

Are you talking to me? Nah, I don’t think so
Are you asking me if I am mad at the world?
Well I’ll have to think, I guess, maybe? I know!
But I really can’t hear you, I have in headphones
Can we take a break? Cause I gotta smoke
Yes, and each one, it is killing me slow
Well technically fast,
E-R the better
I’d love to be deader than how I already feel in my guts on the inside
Black tar suffocating the fluids inside of my spine —
*****, you are a dime

Pleasure remains, but so does the pain, I’m going insane

“Why you so guarded?” Can’t get this enough
Please shut the **** up, my feelings are stuck
I can’t get enough of the **** from the plug
To put me in a coma from smoking too much
Every time I come thru, I water his buds
He got that good good
that fefe
That neek neek
Good gas got me prerolling
His blunts for the morning
When I'm not high, I'm boring
It's my niche through the torment
To numb all external stimulation endured on my journey
In the basement of a haunted house with all Windows boarded

I'm lonely!
Hopelessly, truthfully, desparingly torn between
Extending my warmth or further retreating
I just wanna die without leaving my momma cleaning
The mess of myself all cold and depleting, and
Soaking the carpet to live or to be in.
Beside myself now, oh, how ******* convenient.
The whispers of a woman in a moment once fleeting , but
That won't be me, will it?
Someone make me see different!
One of the versions of myself that I live with, because
I am infinite.
Still I'm human, I have limits
I could still push myself further than what im currently doing,

i just wrote this *** imstill working on it
Penning down the thoughts
Am I not done with the words
Have I used them all?

Round and round
Thoughts and words
In the loop bound

The thoughts have been naughty
Jump off the mind cliff,  doughty
Don’t want to be worded
Flight to nowhere boarded
Off the radar crash land , all spotty
Anna Blake Oct 2017
i left your wine glass
on my bedside table

for seven days
it settled in the very place
that your hands had aimlessly

staining a ring around a mostly empty bodice.

mostly empty?
barely full?

you see, for me,
the wine glass was
my way of having you
stay as long as I wanted.

I saw your delicate
fingerprints stamped upon
the stem and body

just as they were on mine, under a tin roof
amidst a blanket of summer rain.


i washed the glass tonight

as you boarded the plane to the rest of your life.

i wonder if you'll think of me as you sip on your complimentary glass.

rouge ou blanc, mon amour?
rouge comme mon amour?
ou blanc comme mon remise?

-Anna Blake
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
I fell asleep on a runaway train
Trying not to go insane, oh no
I felt alive but couldn't decide
If I wanted to live or die
Or spend another night / without you

I boarded as the sun went down
And there was no one else around, oh no
I slept against the windowpane
Hearing dreams and the falling rain
As I ride towards nowhere, without you

The endless fields go on and on
Like the pain when you said so long, oh no
I held in my weary hand
The letters of a lost romance
The words all seem empty, without you

As the sun rose in the East
From my dreams I've been released, oh no
The rhythm of the railway car
Makes me wonder where you are
And if I'll be alright, without you
These are lyrics for a song I've written. Heartbreak is good inspiration.
Zane Sep 2016
you boarded my ship when it was sinking so fast
i was so very certain you'd drown with it.
time passes
and i find my vessel mended more and more each day

i've been taught most of my life
to fear stability;
for it seemed as if instability, however dangerous
was more desirable that fleeting stability

but now that i find the earthquakes have begun
to decrease in intensity
ever so slowly

i am still left to ask
is this forever?
have i found that which i've been longing for ages to find?

it terrifies me so, but fills me with what i can only surmise is that which i dreamt about as a child

security. home. a chance at peace.

i wake from sleep, to remember dreams of our adventures
i wake from sleep, to be for, if only once, hopeful about the future
i wake from sleep, to know that i find solace in another
i wake from sleep, to that i am loved, as much as i love

i wake from sleep, to know that one day, when the storms have subsided, you will be there, holding my hand, as I walk up the final hill of my lifelong struggle.
Kewayne Wadley May 2018
I boarded her heart.
Careful to follow the politics of comfort.
Too much weight on either side & We'll surely panic.
Tumbling down.
Spiraling out of control.
I packed light.
Finding everything I need on board.
I enjoyed my window seat.
Being her passenger.
The pleasantries of flying first class.
The view of a different country.
The tedious flutters of anticipation.
Constantly aroused by the exploration of beating hearts.
Continuing to see ourselves in reflection.
Flying destination after destination.
Going here, going there
Non stop.
If ever we should crash.
I'll live knowing this was the best flight I've known.
Light in heart.
Parachute untouched
Bee Sep 2017
of mine

clutter to the
ceiling fan,
filling void
trying to

how involuntarily
she crumples
like paper
on the sidewalk
of my brain,
riddled with
and nonsense
her ink
voice like
under pressure
pressed against

white knuckles
her neck
hot talk
cold chests.

boarded up doors
one-way glass
from inside.

for a moment
she calls
out to me from the
she almost
for the lock,

she almost becomes more than just paper
for you.
Jordan Rowan May 2016
I barely know a lie when I say it out loud
Like a simple "I'm feeling fine" as I'm freaking out
Have you seen the faces climbing up the walls?
I'm so tired
I'm ******* wired
Control me a little because I've got none at all

I fell in love but I was too anxious for my own good
Sometimes it's rough always being misunderstood
Like the feeling I get when I look to the west
And all I see
Is them leaving me
But everyone tells me that it's for the best

I boarded up the windows expecting a storm
But I heard the wind blows only when it's warm
I'm feeling a little crazy, maybe a little overreaction
Will be the death of me
Just please don't look at me while laughing

Some say that you're always stronger than you think
But I don't feel too strong as I take another drink
Then it hits me that I'm the only one who knows
Who I am
And that I can,
Create a world with my hands
guy scutellaro Aug 2018
(continued from O' Malley's wedding reception part 3)

"I can't drive, Jack.  One drink too many." She says slurring her words. " Can you drive me home?" Kate asks.

Kathleen and Jack walk over to the groom and bride who are standing near the big glass refrigerator door with Paul Keater. Gradually over the years Jack has perfected his indifference to Keater.

As Delleto watches Keater talking to O'Malley the anger grows into the loathing Jack always feels for Paul Keater.  Keater's pregnant belly hangs over the belt holding up his too large pants.
Obviously, Delleto thinks to himself, Keater has been wearing that same shirt all week, and that Giant baseball cap, well, ****, he never takes it off.

When Keater glances down, he realizes he is standing next to Jack Delleto. Usually, Paul Keater would have at least considered punching Delleto in his self-righteous face. Paul rocks back and forth on his worn shoes for a moment and slides the Giant baseball cap across his forehead several times. Paul limps over to the bar.

Bob bends down kisses Kathleen on the cheek and turns to shake hands with Dell.

"Good luck," Says Jack Delleto.

Bob briefly smiles.

Kathleen embraces the bride. "You look fantastic."


Outside the bar the sun is setting behind the boarded shut Delleto Market.

"That was my dad's store," Jack tells Kate stepping into the bluish circle of light cast by the street lamp. His face is in shadow as he stares at the store. "My dad would come home drunk. He'd beat me, beat my mother. No reason. He's dead and been dead for seven years and I don't know why, but he still scares the **** out of me."

A cold rain ****** through the darkening sky.

Jack whispers to himself as he reads the graffiti painted on the boarded shut building. "TELL YOUR DREAMS TO ME. TELL ME YOU LOVE ME, IF YOU LOVE ME, TELL ALL YOUR DREAMS TO ME."

(to be continued)
Roman Aug 2018
The rustic sheet of a door screams as we pull it like a scab
We step inside this warehouse can
Two floors - we're holding hands
His eyes lit like a crescent Moon - excited, he yells "daaad!"

Our head, like swaying swing
We see it all, tongue in cheek
Like controls without the freak
It's so much fun it stings

An asymmetric wasteland
Convenient and distorted
The walls - bleak and boarded
A symbolic sleight of hand

This is where we feel
My father's on the catwalk
Like paranoia paraphernalia
My son's grip tightens, it's the only thing that's real

Absolute felicity
To realize what I have in the confines of my hand
Imperfection in the making - he doesn't understand
Skylarking permissably

A reverie to remember
His smile - sifting through his eyes
Warm, he maneuvers like the flies
He was born in December

Moving closer to my father
He's amidst the in-between
Consistently foreseen
His motion is no bother

He steps along the ply
Somehow keen in his demeanor
Four-years-old, but greener
Tossed and turning - it's the gleaner

The sheet has been disturbed
He's falling to his death
I'm blanketed in sweat
This cannot be deserved

My father's eyes - they match my own
I tear through the distance
Foreseeing and consistent
My father is a witness

The fear - he's fighting falling
We've never known it more
His tiny hands just wishing there were nails
Collective - we're losing all things

I grasp a finger as he falls but not enough to bring him back
My son approaches pavement as it fills my throat the same
I look him in the eyes as they melt away in pain
My body wakes without my mind - hysterically screaming  "DAAAD!"
This happened to me. I awoke, but it didn't make the memory any better. Only the ones to come.
MajaDaydreams Mar 10
Bought a ticket for the Pineapple Express
Past starry green fields
The iron beast hissed
Troubled I was from events recent passed
I had boarded the carriage without a thought

Upon settling in my assigned compartment
I looked at my ticket to discern the next station
But the destination was blank
And we were full steam ahead

I don’t understand, I thought,
Panic beginning to rise
I signaled the conductor
For a moment of his time

“The first station ahead, sir,” I kindly enquired
Slightly confused he answered, “whatever your desire”
What a curious response, I began to clarify
But he stopped me mid sentence with this reply:

“You boarded this train, baby,
There’s a reason for that
Until you work through it,
That destination stays blank.”
jcl Mar 31
The train slowed as it pulled into la Gare de l’Est, the cars bumping and wheels grinding as it came to a stop. It was late. I’d have to move fast to catch the last metro home. I didn’t have the energy, I was tired, cold and hungry, which made me grumpy.

I slung my satchel around my chest, grabbed my carry-on, and made my way to the exit. As I neared the door, I could feel the cold January air flooding into the car. I tightened my coat around me as I stepped down the stairs onto the quay, carry-on in my right hand.

Looking for the nearest exit, I turned left without looking and ran full on into woman. Our bodies collided, time slowed, as we compressing into each other. Her hair flowed into my face like an ocean wave. I could smell her hair, her scent, her femininity. She squealed in surprised, her voice full of youth and nubility.  

The world rushed back into real time and I saw her. My eyes opened wide in awe and disbelief that a woman could be so beautiful. I remember her eyes, supernaturally blue, sapphire blue, as if they glowed from a power within; her skin, white, milky, alabaster, as if she were a statue come to life; her hair, black, glossy, like the feathers of a witch’s raven.

Our eyes locked. Her angry gaze cut through me. I felt exposed and in danger. I looked down and apologized. “Excusez-moi mademoiselle,” I said, putting my right hand to my heart and bowing slightly as if addressing a queen.

I looked back up. Our eyes meet. She had assessed me in the blink of her eyes. She regained her composure, her body relaxed, she touch me arm, and said, “excusez-moi, I was not looking where I was going,” which I sensed was untrue.

I stepped aside. She passed, turned her head, looked me dead in the eyes, gave me a slight smile, and disappeared into the stream of the exiting crowd.

I was perplexed and confused. I’d never had that sort of exchange with a woman before. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it good, bad, or somewhere in between.

The crowd had thinned. I started walking toward the metro station, looking for #4 Port d’ Orleans, increasing my pace before I missed the last metro home. I followed the signs, and descended the stairs to the quay. There were a few people and groups, up and down the quay, quietly waiting. I leaned on a large concrete pillar, too tired to pay attention to my surroundings, waiting for the train, smelling the air filled with exhaust from electric motors. I could hear the hum of the approaching train. In an instant it was in front of me, slowing down, coming to a stop, the doors hissing open.

I waited a bit, for the groups to board the train. Tired and on auto-pilot, I leaned down, picked up my carry-on, boarded, and sat down on a folding seat by the door, putting my carry-on between my legs.

The train slowly accelerated, humming, rocking, back and forth melodically. I looked up out of curiosity to see who else was on the last train, and I saw her, sitting on the first bench catty-corner, facing towards me. Surprised and caught off guard, that I would ever see her again, I  immediately looked down, not wanting to be caught staring, looking at her from the corner of my eyes.

I couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. Preternaturally beautiful, as if she wasn’t one of us, somehow not human. She was reading a Kindle, iPods in her ears. Her dress was Parisienne, black on black, the only color, the blue in her eyes, and the blood red of her lips.

She oozed sensuality, sophistication, and confidence. How could that be for a woman so young, a woman in her early 20s.

She read quiescently, only her thumb moving, ever so slightly, as she page forward through her Kindle. Her eyes never looked up, not even to see who new entered the car, when stopped at new stations.

I would look up, occasionally, to glimpse at her. She was fascinating to me, not only because of her beauty, but from her vibe. I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t figure it out. Why was I so drawn to her, like a moth to flame.

The train pulled into to Ile-de-la-Cite, rapidly slowing down, passengers counter balancing so as not to fall over. The doors hissed open. In the corner of my eyes, I saw her stand up and start walking up the aisle towards the doors, towards me. I raised my head slowly, our eyes met, locked, time stopped. She smiled, subtly, but enough for me see. Her eyes, gentle, tender, inviting. I smiled, a slight smile back, my eyes saying everything she wanted to hear.

She turned and exited the train. I stared at her, my mouth open in amazement. The klaxon sounded, the door started closing. Panic surged up within me, as I feared I would never see her again. I bolted up from my seat, headed towards the door, abandoning all behind me. The doors slammed shut with thud, I pulled down on the handle, they were locked.

The train started to move, I looked at her. She was looking back. Our eyes locked, as the trained speed off into the darkness of the night.

... continued at séraphine #3 pere lachaise cemetery
if you like what you read, please leave a comment to keep inspiring the author :-)

#162 2019.04.15 /#333 2019.04.30
Stu Harley Oct 2018
hoist the
Royal Queen's flag
shouted out
hands on deck
shipmates replied
aye...aye Captain Bly
coupled our sails
started our
young maiden voyage
White Cliffs of Wales
dark wine sea
joined our sails
bagpipes march behind
guy scutellaro Oct 2018
last chapter.

Hearing something, he turns and looks out of his open door to see Mr. Martin go shuffling by wearing a bath robe and one red slipper. Jack hears Martin's door close and then for thirty seconds the old man screams, "AAHHH, AAAHHH, AAAAHHHHH." After that the building is quiet, and Jack listens to his own labored breathing.

A glance at the clock tells him it is  a few minutes to 7 a.m. Jack hurries from his room into the hallway. They pass each other on the stairs. The big man is coming up the stairs and Jack is going down to the bar to see O'Malley.

Jack has committed a trespass. The big man looks down as Delleto turns. "Hello, Jack, brother." The man smiles, slides the brim of his Giants baseball cap across his forehead and then continues up the stairs.

Jack watches him. When Paul Keater reaches the top of  the stairs the red exit light flickers like a candle above Keater's head and then goes out. An instant later the sound of a door closing echoes down the hallway to the bottom of the steps.

Jack Delleto is standing in the doorway at the bottom of the steps looking out onto the wet, bright street.

"Hey, Jack, man it's good to see you. I heard you were dead."

Jack turns, looks over his shoulder. "Felix! How the **** have you been?"

The two men shake hands, then embrace momentarily.

"Ah, things don't get any better and they don't get any worse." The old man shrugs and then he smiles, but his brown eyes are dull and Jack can smell the cheap wine on the old man's breath. "When are you gonna come back to the gym and start workin out? Man, you've got something, Kid, and we're going places.

"Yea, Felix, I'll be coming back. " Jack extends his hand to  Felix. The old fighter smiles and they shake hands. Suddenly, Felix takes off down Main Street towards the Food Town super market walking quickly as if he has someplace important to go.

Jack is curious. He sees the rope when he starts walking towards the Wagon Wheel bar. One end of the rope is tied around the parking meter pole. The rest of the rope extends across the sidewalk and disappears  into the entrance of the bar. The rattling of a chain catches his attention and when the dog's huge white head pops out of the bar doorway Jack is startled. Jack stops dead in his tracks and as he spins around to run, he slips and falls to the wet pavement.

The big, white mutt growls, woofs once and comes charging down the sidewalk at him.

The rope is quickly growing shorter. It stretches until meets its end, tightens, and then snaps. Now, unimpeded by the tension of the rope the mutt comes hurtling down the sidewalk at Delleto

Frighten, Jack's body grows tense with the anticipation of the attack. Jack starts to stand up, makes it to his knees just as the dog bowls into him knocking him to the grown. The huge dog has him pin down, goes right for his face.

And begins licking him.

Relieved, Jack struggles to his knees and hugs her tightly to him. He looks over her shoulder and across Main Street to the graffiti painted on the boarded shut Delleto Market.

                           FANTASY WILL SET YOU FREE.

                                           The End

Henry David Thoreau, "I left... for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one"

my thanks to hello poetry for letting me put in stories which are not poetry. thanks to the people who have read some of it.

originally, I started with the idea some chapters of a novel I wrote might work as a short story. larger portions of the novel have been left out. at some point I decided to put the chapters that I included in order of occurrence. the result: a little bit of  a mess.

my solution and it might be an innovation but i'm going  put a note for the reader to put the chapters in any order they like. Ha, ha.
You boarded that train
Bound for nowhere
That day at the station
You were looking kind of frail
I warned you that this would happen
After you burned all those bridges
Now you hang your head in shame
The price of the ticket was all you had
Your Duffel bag full of canned goods
And a jar of peanut butter
It's hard to call your life a journey
When it feels like a dead end
Micheal Jan 10
To get home, I take the trudge through this warzone every day.
Broken bottles line the sidewalk.
Well people have to cope somehow.
Sunlight never shines through the blinds because the windows are boarded.

This isn’t the type of place you go sightseeing, but I’ll be your tourguide for today.
First stop is the corner store; here you’ll find the toothless men who leave the broken bottles.
I’m sure whatever story they’re telling is great.
Truly sad it is that you nor I will ever be able to decipher their slurred tales.

To your right you’ll see a young girl.
Excuse her attire; that’s just typical uniform in her line of work.
“What kind of product is she selling?” you may wonder.
She isn’t selling the product; she is the product.
Sad as it may be, that’s one of the more prominent parts of the workforce around here.
If her mother were sober, maybe she wouldn’t have needed employment.

As we continue our walk, be sure to keep straight.
Most who detour into the allies don’t come back.
If only my friend had known that when he moved here.
He was always a gambler, but that night he lost money and a lot more.

You may also be wondering why those walking past us have such vacant eyes.
Around here we don’t get much sleep.
The sounds of bullets ricocheting often keeps us awake.
If not that, for me it’s the screams of lady next door.
Her husband is a giant but far from a gentle one.

I must bid you adieu now; you’d be best not to stay past sundown.
I pray this tour hasn’t left you scarred.
Turoa Nov 2018
I hear a whistle blaring
It's a sound like no other
Three tones perfectly out of sync
Terrifying yet familiar
The roar of fire within the belly of some prehistoric metal beast
As the steam screams through rusted pipes
And somewhere between the two
Is the bellow of an unseen engineer
A madman ***** to his furnace
Ripping away at the chord
The sound wakes me from my slumber
All thoughts are gone and for one blissful moment
All that exists is that three toned symphony
I recall a younger boy as trees and shadows flick by the glass
It's unusually cold on board tonight
The little boy shivers as the cold creeps
The window is the only portal
Through which one can see the beauty
Of the night outside
Trees flick by like memories, lost and blended by shadows
I remember the imaginary trees
Whizzing past
And the roar of the wood catching
As the pipe climbing from the stove whistles
It's dark and seeping from the window
Come the creeping fingers of cold gripping at me
The fire is blistering hot, but at my back
All I need to do is turn and the comforting winter embrace
Is always right there waiting
My chubby little fingers aren't hard and calloused yet
The cold dry.. It hurts
And my nose bleeds
It'll be fine
It always is
I was never afraid of a little hurt
It makes boys men
But for now my train is unstoppable
Tearing across an endless track
The colorful carved blocks
Magnets holding the links together
Iron filings
Grit between each faded joint
The segmented spine
Of a wood and metal
Twisting and undulating
Rattling it's little caboose
In anticipation
Of an unknown destination
As it burns through
Stained brown carpet
As the fire casts shadows stretch along the floor
One could imagine
It is a real train
The tracks are real now
It's a real train that tears across them
Like veins of a sleeping giant
Powerless to stop the iron bullets
In succession tearing through him
Those tracks are beneath me now
Cold steel
Cold and heartless
But savagely effective
In conjunction with the hissing pistons
The metal serpent hurdles forward
I can't remember where I was heading
Nor where I boarded
Come to think of it
All lost to that whistle
A cigarette burns steadily
A single ember in this segmented metal tomb
It overpowers my sense of smell and brings a seeming sense of clarity
I remember that little boy had a similar whistle
Or was it a sound he used to make with his mouth
I see a triangular prism
Wood with holes cut into it's three sides
Yes that's the whistle
The sound
The sound of power
The unstoppable rushing onward
Wheels pulse beneath me
Maybe it was gentle once, but now
It's a violent shudder
The metal reverberates every concussive strike
Like the hammer reverberated
Against every felled spike
A younger man laid these rails
A younger man drove these spikes
His hands are worn and calloused now
Blood and sweat flow freely
Salt stings only his indifference
This track is endless and finally as the sun drips low
The peaceful embrace of that ever present dark
Playfully marching across the sky
The cigarette flares with each drag
The comforting reminder that each breath is numbered
These tracks are endless
And were placed by a much younger man remember
But with that last drag
Even this almighty train
Must have a final stop
I make my way along the cars
Empty and cold
But there is a heat in front of me
Steadily building
There is an old familiarity about the sensation
Steady searing heat paralleled
Like this track
The driving inferno forward
That creeping cold at my back
A younger man formed these rails
Put down every length of track
The timber he cut to form the pilings
Spikes driven
By his ****** fists
Rails carried and placed
Like a profane cross
Upon a sinners back
He is tired
Like I am tired
He walks into the sunset
Along the path he carved for himself
The silence is so peaceful
Step after solitary step
He looks out at the beautiful
Masterpiece only he could create
Never mind the soot and dust  
Mixed in sweat  
The stains that cover his aching body
Never mind the staccato drip
The pulse and fatigue ringing through depleted limbs
A steady drip
As his ****** fists
Paint little red drops, like shattering stars
With every click worn boots
On the fresh wood and steel
Every step
Along this path,
Is the solemn advance of a condemned monster,
And on this path,
Every step,
Is the wretched creep of a glistening black god.
I'm tired when I reach the engine room.
Involuntarily I open the door.
Somewhere in a dark room,
A boy innocently plays with his multi-coloured desert viper Coiled deceitfully on the floor.
It's burning,
My lungs grasp hopelessly
At the chance for brisk night air.
One of my hands is chained to the lever
The other to the chord.  
I remember walking in here once,
But I can't remember any more.  
The familiar sound surprises me
As it has every time before.  
A younger man
With the last ash of a cigarette
Stares transfixed
Paralyzed stepping through the door.  
...The sun on his track sets,
Between his rails his feet are sure.  
The trees are quiet and calm.
Peaceful in the darkness
No pistons scream
Or monsters roar.  
..and then..
Is it behind
Or within me
..I hear a whistle.
My  walk  beneath  the  sun
of  a  Saturday  morning  in
the lively  streets  of  Minna
my own darling  birth  town.

Busy  rabble  were  amongst
the  citizens  of  that  hour.
Brig­ht  lovely  sky  with
undefined motions  of  sinless
pidgins sailing  it  and  their  
shadows roaming  the  street  floors.
Free  must  they  be  flapping
thei­r  wings  swiftly  in  the
vastness  of  the  blue.

I  saw  a  lad  in  tired  grey  shirt,
standing by a tree hoping for kindness
from the Sun's rage.
His left  hand  holding  a  cage  
and that object was confining  
three petite birds  for  sale.
Dear  life  caged  and  tagged  
with price  to  be  lifted  with
‘******’  earthly  papers.

Colorful  they  were  to  my  seeing
and  to  my  quiet  war  a­s thoughts,
i thought they  are  little  but  then  
i realized  that is to  be normal  size
of  their  specie’s  full  growth.

My  hand, if  thee and  i  are  good  —
with  saving,
we  would had bought  their  freedom.
In  truth  their  freedom  but  not  them­
and  set  them  free  into  freeness where  their wings and chest belong.

Their  freedom  but  not  them,
for  what  Everest­  of  gold  
can in  truth  buy  life?  
None,  aye.

Firstly, I  asked  myself  in  outer  silence
“where  rests  freedom  for ­ the  birds?”
with  same  quietness  i  answered
“their  freedom ­ is  outside  his  cage,
their  confinement  within  it’s  sticks­”.

And  in  reference  to  the  Human -
Enslaved to air and water,
I asked  my  inner  self  secondly “his  confinement  is  the  human —
 heart’s unquenchable  desires?”
and my deeper being uttered:
“like  a  jug  that  house  wants  and  
desires  is  the  heart­,
but  that  jug  as  it  is — is  bottomless  and cursed  to  be
with  never  ending  longings,
created to be  far  from  fulfillment  
with a distance mightier than that of
northern and southern poles on
a planet of infinite spaciousness,
but within arm's length to contentment.

And  I blinked and asked  myself  thirdly
“and  his  freedom  is  for  him  to walk  
to  the  dusk  
of  his  days free  of  encumbrance?”
Heavy  perplexity  boarded
my  ship  of  ­knowledge,
drowning  dead  my  answers and  
I said naught.
Because  the  laws  that  govern the  
world  and  hearts of men are  laws
above  me  and  my  crucifying.

That  very  law  placed  animals below  
the insatiable  hearts  of humans,
yet  humans  grief  when  that
same  law  place  them  be­low
a mightier  hand.
I read  of  the  worries  of  a  noble  
when loosing  his  wealth  to  
forty Arabian  thieves.

This  law  that  we  all  forcefully or  willingly  oblige  to,
like it is lady tyranny or her  
‘frenemy’  — democracy.

This  law  oftentimes had drowned me  
in dip of  melancholy  and  suffocated  
me  asleep with  the  therapy i get from 
Irish  and Scottish  tunes,
Lightening my heaviness
giving  me  keys  to  escape the  
unpleasant  season  temporarily –
though  sometimes  be  haunted  in  my
sleeping  dreams  but  w­ith a very lesser
weight and magnitude indeed.

And  voiceless  I  asked  lastly,
addressed  to  the  birds  as­  if – they  are  inside  me
“is  this  your  price  of  being  alive?
a­nd  mine  this  spirit  wearing  
white cotton  woven  fabric  
with  mouth clung  to  barrel  of  softness,
drinking  from  it  not  knowing­ how
drunk  am  I  being  this madman?”

I  don’t  know  how  dru­nk  am  I,
to the spiritual insanity of feeling things  
like  these that  are  shunned  
but nights  ago  In  truth,
i  dreamt  of  a  dying  flower  
and i  magically  offered  my  
life line for  it to  bloom  again.

And so my friend,
After  all  the  questioning, answering –
and  perplexity,
i  passed my fellow caged  earthlings  
silently amongst  hundreds  passers  by,
I,  walking  with  sense  of  ali­enage
because inside  me  is  a  house  with
thoughts and voices non  from  the  
passers  by can  dare build  inside  them  
or  ever  indoor mine with
sense of spiritual awakening!

Richie Vincent Aug 2018
It’s 6:47am on a Monday morning on I-71 south towards Cincinnati and I’m driving in the middle lane entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks and out of nowhere, like it was some miracle act of God, it starts pouring down rain so hard that all of the traffic stops in the height of morning rush hour, everyone’s radios playing morning talk shows so loud it vibrates the ground our tires are on and everyone’s coffees move back into their hands from their cup holders, I guess we’re all just trying to wait it out right now

I guess I have no choice but to wait it out right now, he says, hoodie wrinkled, two all nighter’s deep and still no passing grade, standing outside of the campus Starbucks, as it’s pouring down rain

I guess we’ll have to wait it out, says my sister to an 8 year old me, as I wait on the curb of our neighborhood for the ice cream truck, no matter how disfigured the spongebob popsicle’s face looks by the time I get it in my hands, and no matter the fact that I never understood that his eyes were bubblegum

I guess I have to wait it out, my father says, watching my grandmother lying in her hospital bed, getting tests taken for her potentially and what would be proven deadly, lung cancer,
Her eyes glossed over and her lips still yearning for the pull of her usual afternoon pack of cigarettes

You just have to wait it out, says my grandpa, standing next to me in his garden, after having helped me plant my first tomato seeds,
The summer has felt like forever at 10 years old, I wish it stayed that way, and I wish I liked tomatoes

I guess we just have to wait it out now, the head of police says to his crew of swat members, after having everything fail towards coaxing a young high school boy out of his boarded up bedroom, the shotgun he killed his ex girlfriend with, still in his arms

Well, we’re just going to have to wait it out,
I think to myself as I sit in this traffic at what is now exactly 7am on a rainy Monday morning in the middle lane of I-71 south towards Cincinnati, entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks

The rain will stop eventually
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