"habitats" poems
Never let someone else decide how good you are. And never make an exception to that rule.
Your words, and your unique we of expressing them, are a gift given to you. If someone else doesn't appreciate them, then good for them. It's not their gift, so it has nothing to do with them. Its your responsibility to respect your gifts and to protect them from negativity; typical of these lower life forms, called Haters; annoying little creatures that feed off of other people's energy and hard work - they spawn fairly quickly and dewl in the depths of social media, hidden behind computer and smartphone screens. Usually over-weight, bad breath, single and filthy broke. Hindered by limited hand-eye coordination; they simply **** at every thing. They are pretty pathetic, in person. I mean they look human, but have no spinal cord, so they don't stand up straight. Their habitats similar to that of a large roach, just messier with and more filth. I hear they are contagious, so be careful. Don't let their negativity rub off on you, or you will end up like one of them. A soulless zombie, paroling posts looking for a something stupid to say.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
What makes one man superior to another?
Born at different times.
Birthed by different people.
Forged in different habitats.
Formed by different education.
The men are different in every sense,
Yet they are compared by the same bar.
Truly, a man should only measure himself,
Against who he was yesterday.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Earth invents gifts,
On life forms, there's no thrift,
Earth the inventor,
Are humans the predators?
We've wrecked habitats,
Even our own, that's that!
But more Earth inventions,
New form of populations,
Earth always inventing,
Innovations designing,
What's the best invention?
Is man an aberration?
Once a Garden of Eden,
Life we're superseding,
Still, on life forms there's no thrift,
Earth keeps inventing gifts.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
timber habitats are vanishing, on the Earth's mass
timber habitats are vanishing, on the Earth's mass
bulldozers and axes, lethal their mix
bulldozers and axes, lethal their mix
on the Earth's mass, bulldozers and axes
vanishing timber habitats, lethal their mix
the number one priority, where is the preserving and conserving
the number one priority, where is the preserving and conserving
tree dwelling creatures, served eviction from their homes
tree dwelling creatures, served eviction from their homes
preserving and conserving, tree dwelling creatures homes
from eviction, the number one priority
tree felling goes on unabated, wooded residencies destroyed
tree feeling goes on unabated, wooded residencies destroyed
profits to be ever reaped, satiating the logger's greed
profits to be ever reaped, satiating the logger's greed
unabated the logger's tree felling goes on
satiating greed destroyed, wooded residencies reaped
wood residencies destroyed, on the Earth's mass
served eviction from their homes, tree dwelling creatures
timbered habitats are vanishing, the number one priority
profits to be ever reaped ,bulldozers and axes lethal their mix
tree felling goes on unabated, satiating the logger's greed
where is the preserving and conserving?
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Like crystal sand pebbles
Washed away from seashore
Like shooting stars in space
Propelled out of the night sky
Our beautiful black pearls
Young and innocent and ambitious
Full of life, full of tomorrow
Were stolen away in daylight
Away from unnatural habitats
Away from unsafe clusters
Away from our sleepy watchful eyes
Loosing their buoyancy
To the same fearsome monsters
That have plagued the land much
Bursting balloons at parties
Bringing mayhem as they visit
Making our warriors look childish
Forcing help from the world over.
The sun has gone to sleep
The moon has loomed too long
But to hope, we will cling
Till we find our lost pebbles…
© Raphael Uzor
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Dragonfly o Dragonfly
framed against a lazy summer sky,
you'll hover and ponder out yonder,
like an acrobat you fly.
You'll dance and dart, hover and peer,
Touching, stalking, feathered walking.
On pond shadows dark and near,
onto sunbeams sparkling clear.
Casting imaged reflections,
on a mirrored surface of life's crystal pond.
Where ever-diminishing dainty rippled circles,
disappear onto a distant misty shore beyond.
You'll ponder and peep,
through dark secrets your pond might keep,
captured images of animals & bees,
scented flowers & soft young trees.
About political boundary bursts,
and agonizing desert thirsts.
While strife-torn agony song is being sung,
at the scorching heat of the searing Sun.
Witnessing a climate change,
Industrial, Oil, Air & Waste pollution.
With no workable cleanup program in site,
to warrant a solution.
Our planet's resources stretched,
to its limits by human misery & industry untold.
Life's habitats are disappearing,
the beginning of Earth end is nearing.
It is inevitable that soon, to soon,
after million a year, on life's crystal ponds so clear.
You'll too succumb to man's industrious endevours,
and for eternity disappear.
Andreas Strauss.16 June 2007
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
Upon a huge, lush garden,
on a cold autumn day...
various leaves fall, in sweet surrender...
some still rise and go with the forceful wind
floating...along with dreams, wishes and prayers
murmured in the air...uttered fervently
...from near......or faraway places
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
papers, leaves, souls, sighs, and whispers
all circulate, dance in the air...blending with nature
like drifters...and seekers, far from their homes
their habitats...their comfort zones,
suspended, in the atmosphere of every season
...yielding...to the will of the wind,
...while the wind obeys...the will of God
they swirl...land, on new destinations
face new dimensions...
friendlier seas...no more running, just waiting,
while winds of change settle down
touching new base, new grass,
hoping, for a peaceful existence,
for some....the end of life's turbulent journey
..........on safe...tranquil grounds...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
somewhere near, or far...huge gardens exist
where leaves fall, where some rise again,
where new beginnngs, new lives are offered...
havens that welcome and accommodate
...refugees...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sally
Copyright August 27, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
My shoelaces flap side to side like one of those car-dealership inflatables arms-
My veiny stompers pump puddles of pure procrastination from perceptive sprinting-
Underneath the tune-buds, I cannot hear my sneakers scraping the scrap rocks of gravel-
To my left- a hooting owl habitats itself in a hushed game of charades-
To my right- a slick tree frog flies freely from a lofty leaf and lands in the lagoon-
Elapsed images of elastic languages fill my mind with everlasting wisdom-
Entertained by the watercolors, my canvas curdles and secedes the state of mind-
Pressing harder- the curtain continues to close as I chase the condescending daylight-
Pressing softer- the tuner in my temple turns into a terrorizing shriek from my tibia-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
*First light in the Hudson Valley
Arbor Day of April, 1970.*
Adrenaline coursed through our young
bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose.
As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles
to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds
called out from the misty swamps.
Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife
were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats.
Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued
warning cries from deep in the woods,
where blights were killing our trees
with increasing frequency.
Three of us rode together, cycling in relative
silence, until we came to a meadow
selected for our early breakfast picnic.
We feasted on special fruits and cheeses,
hungrily stuffing in rare treats.
One friend began to send iridescent
soap bubbles into the chilly air.
Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud
of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun.
One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass.
We stared at it, somehow understanding that here
was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet.
Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance
of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us.
The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned.
We were sleepy in our classes that morning;
most of our teachers understanding that we stood
now for something worthwhile, that we believed in,
and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval.
Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show
designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents.
An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave
of changes that our generation brought with us.
Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife
flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium,
accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of
Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary
that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913.
We had no idea then how much worse things would become.
All these years later, we each do our part, blessing
the efforts of our children and their children,
hoping fervently that we are not too late.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
the protea magnifica
or queen protea
as it is also known
is a south african flower
of which until recently
i was shamefully unaware
a sprawling shrub
of varying height
dependent upon
influences of its growth
but a hardy plant
nonetheless
able to survive
and to thrive
under the starkest
of conditions and habitats
its flower is not delicate
like many others
but a symbol of survival
of resilience and growth
its boldest of blooms
an array of brightest hues
sending a message
of strength and power
courage and hope
yet the tightly held
closed cup of its petals
suggests a reluctance
to be noticed
an uncertainty
of it's own true beauty
perhaps in comparison
to its kingly namesake
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
In the cloudy evenings with strong hints of rain
You heard them once and you heard them again
The air would rend with their cacophony
The torrents would send them in ecstatic glee.
Even a few years back you could find them around
The harbinger of monsoon with harsh croaking sound
On your yard and garden in quite large packs
Frolicking for insects, the great jumping Jacks.
They scoured the marshland in search for food
Calling in monotone and setting you to brood
With your mind gnawed by the incessant rains
That rattled your thoughts and the glass window panes.
But then lands were devoured by the human sharks
Soon disappeared open spaces and parks
Came up apartments and rows of house
Urban growth you accept without grouse.
Now in the lonely evenings with fair hints of rain
The rains will be back but you won’t hear them again
Their habitats are gone there aren’t left any bogs
And with these are gone your neighborhood frogs.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
Thunderstorms are ******
So stand underneath a tree
Or light a candle in your bedroom and lust after the one you love
The wind is a wise gypsy
So let yourself be blown away like autumn leaves
And let the colors swirl around you
Sunshine leaves sweat and joy
So play in the daytime
And watch the white fluffy clouds turn into shapes
Nighttime brings diamonds in the sky
So look for the man in the moon
And make a wish on a falling star
Mountains are for those with kind souls
So climb to the top
And let your soul grow wings
The ocean forces you to dream
So ride each wave
While your mind evaporates
Trees are habitats for woodland creatures
So meditate with the noise they make
And feel serenity
(Savor nature in all its glory)
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
My least favorite animal would be:
Humans - but especially me.
I’d greet the end of the human race.
And point a gun toward my face.
And pull the trigger - so you’d know -
I’m capable of doing so.
I’d hang myself from a dead ol’ tree,
So that would be the end of me.
I’d blow myself up for no reward,
I’d burn alive or swallow a sword.
You see, I thought the sloth was the dumbest beast.
The most pointless animal, at the very least.
As slowly clinging to a tree,
most die in lifeless apathy.
(Because the rush of finding food,
Is pushed back by the urge to move).
But even sloths make habitats
for little creatures on their backs,
Yes, hardly useful - but more so than I -
So for a sloth to live, I’d gladly die.
The stupidity of human kind
Is that we’re all too dumb and blind.
We’re not important – not a bit –
just good at trying to reason it;
It’s really hard to not be scared
of losing everything life has shared.tu
Dying – that’s what frightens most,
That final eviction from life’s post.
While some believe their worth is measured.
Their souls live on, in heaven, treasured.
Reality is just a curse.
And humanity is by far the worst.
There is no superior tinker -
apparent to the deeper thinker -
That not a God could there exist,
When children die and he resists.
Not a very loving sell:
“love me back or burn in hell.”
life is meaningless, as It seems to me,
pondering in one-of-billions of galaxies.
On an average rocky planet that orbits a star,
And hosts the most evil creatures by far.
We skip the parts that disagree.
With our personal philosophies.
Life is governed by the tax
of being born and paying back
to the corporation we are chained,
and most are happy – they don’t complain.
They work, have kids, and all the rest.
They convince themselves they’re not depressed.
Through trying to see good in other folk.
Or putting faith in some fancy joke.
I hate this world. And all its greed.
There is no good in any deed.
Even goodness has a price attached:
The “You scratch mine, I’ll scratch yours back.”
But beauty is not too hard to find,
for those of us who are inclined,
To run from what has boxed our brains,
To flee the greed, to throw the chains,
and look up into outer space,
and know that we are out of place.
One day our atoms will journey there,
and be free as petals in the autumn air.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:10 AM UTC
Merry Christmas, the voice greets me
humbug I mutter under breath
greed hatred jealousy
only things you live with.
Keep to yourself your mirth
I sullenly brood
such lies are too heavy for this earth
done this place no good.
Relations under cloud of doubt
each soul bears a grievous injury
merriment had long gone out
the greet is just empty.
It's a pity you still find it merry
with all the injustice inequity
men classified quartered
children for food bartered.
Merry doesn't the word stink
while some choose what to drink
fuss about the flavor to savor
many reach it by miles' labor.
Merry can't hide away the glum
of human habitats in dingy slums
strewn on pavements under open sky
breathing refuses left to die.
Still, Merry Christmas to you, says the voice
the time is to give and rejoice
the world though truly is what you say
haven’t You, I, We, made it that way?
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
Dream on, my friend,
Like me.
Of a future Heaven on Earth,
Or even just a Heaven.
Peace to all Men,
And Women.
Nor more starvation,
Disease
Or Death.
A Paradise in full bloom.
Endless forest, savannas and parklands
Ringed by towering mounts.
Habitats for countless species:
Humanity united with Mother Nature.
Trivial pleasures too.
Leeds United World Champions.
British wins at Wimbledon.
Another World Cup win.
Girls Aloud joining me,
For a fish and chip tea.
More medals in Rio,
Than we got in twenty twelve.
Crank up that warp drive,
Or better still,
Open up that Uniscape
So we can go
Into a parallel universe
Of our choice.
A realm where fiction becomes fact.
Where Captain Kirk is real
And Shatner just a character
On TV.
Where Telletubbies really watch us,
And Father Christmas truly shows his face.
Golden pavements are mere trifles,
And God gives us his grace.
We have to keep on dreaming.
Our hopes must never die.
Just simply keep on dreaming,
No need to reason why.
Paul Butters
© Paul Butters 27\10\2012 (2) in Yorkshire.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
A beautiful world, it needs some cuddles,
All around, the world of struggles,
Plants all over are gasping,
While chemicals pollutants are grasping,
Fur, feathers and fish are becoming extinct,
As their habitats can no longer exist,
Then there's plebs in Earth, who struggle,
Overpopulation--maybe too many cuddles,
Soon for air we'll all be gasping,
While the powers--that-be go on grasping,
All around a world of struggles,
Our beautiful world needs a cuddle.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
icecaps come undone
crushing into the ocean
as she sheds her frozen tears
penguins and p0lar bears shudder
as their habitats recede
like the snows of Kilimanjaro
volcanoes explode
spewing smoke and ash like billowing pillows
into the stratosphere
diffusing sunshine's heat
like a cold compress
floes of lava melt glaciers
rivers of mud cause flooded folks to flee
fissures crack and snap from her pressure
towns and countrysides split
floors rumble and roll like the ocean
walls tumble, crumble and roar
bells toll an all too familiar melody
families cry out, wailing and ranting
chanting dirges of great loss
an inconsolable cacophony
rubbled lives lying in ruin
but she is not to blame
the earth is a no fault state
this is our doing
ecology's consequence
greenhouse gasses and other pollutants
have given her a fever
her pores are opening to vent the warming
she is not angry or vindictive
punishment is not her goal
and evil has not played its hand
the planet is just cooling herself
it's how Gaia gets her groove back
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
Could vous just take a second, a moment, one solid instant
to visualize the boy in the stall with more felt lacerations than words of admiration.
Could the bold, bright, beautiful ones start singing
because I'm sick of the loud talk that goes through the motions of lingering
in an echoed room as they "try" to save the oceans - tell me, did we
litter on the way there? There's a forgotten world in stories told of heroes, breathing clean air.
Could the world give one more shot (a mountainous event) because history needs valor.
But technology is further than requirements for bravehearts to trigger a gun. Envision
a man four foot high, who stands a flag where poppies lie because he was that lucky man
who watched his fellows die
I'll say, weaponry wields death to We, naught could prove me wrong.
Could the world be a little bit more tight; bring back the mystery of gentlemen.
We're too loose and on the edge of loss, and the cost - oh, the cost
is sentimentality that somehow became disconnected when
baring your soul and stripping bare became two
and when I meet the one, my mind is plagued that we shall only amount to half.
Could the world be about more than the new, the sophisticated
or have too many eye closed to the life before the Dodo's died; now only
one view: to screen the disease from the rescued swingers, sinkers and singers
ahhhhhhhhh! basking in captivity: to compensate, we take back by metabolizing habitats.
Could the world be about to - because me and mine are everywhere,
but mind: the brain's likely to reach revelation. Clap, we will excel. After all,
when the world explodes and we reconnect, I'm sure each will preach and teach and leech
until it's known - We'll thank Gutenberg as needed, but printer is no master
when the minds are intertwined. But P'haps it has been a bad morning because I've known you
and you've bled true - long been fixing those around, so they aren't torches who warn off monsters,
instead they shave down fangs of loathing, there's no - not one! - beast they burn.
And don't I wonder? Ah yes, I do wonder: that now
Could the world be about to turn?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Hanging on
with my teeth
in a hurricane
that's grief.
Rushing through
crushing me
breaking you
is there any more that it can do?
Power lines and taxi ranks,high street schools and country banks all in the air
where the hurricane brings nought but pain
and it always seems to ****** rain
when the winds outside decide to ride on the wings of daemons.
Then
the silence booms out ,shouts out to a waiting crowd,quite quietly
as if another decibel would bring the chaos back from hell,
and the people crawl like wounded ants
with feelers outstretched, looking for their habitats and listen to the
growls from dogs and smiles from Cheshire cats and budgies wearing pork pie hats
the world goes quite insane every time a hurricane
comes storming through
I think it's time to move away somewhere,say like
Kansas.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
The eccentricities of nature
Leaving us at its mercy
Sun and rain are taking turns
To play with us, caught unaware
Mood swings of nature
Blatantly leaving us perplexed
Sometimes raging with fury
Or its calming nature acts as a balm
Another moment tornadoes
Ripping across the hearts of habitats
Leaving us bare and unsheltered
Earthquakes depriving the ground beneath
Leaving us with open chasms of darkness
Erupting volcanoes, burning away
Glowing rivers of lava, taking its own course
Not showing any mercy, drowning dreams
Icy cold glaciers melting away the past
To drown away the future of our existence
And the vast seas encroaching shorelines
So many vignettes of nature
We can only be mere spectators
To the eccentricities of nature
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
The kingfisher knocks to call me
friend of you I do beg
make some time from poetry
find me a place to lay an egg.
My nuggets of small oval white
where to put them kind soul
where to find one good site
on some wall a small hole.
This summer the ponds are dry
my eyes are weary with watch
futile my desperate try
to pull out my hunger's catch.
Now I hardly ever sing
hold a mouthful in the beak
dying is the blue on my wing
I'm growing lean and weak.
Friend make a try to save me
our habitats are on the shrink
make some time from poetry
save us from falling over the brink.
The kingfisher knocks on my door
of you friend I do beg
if you want to see us anymore
find me a place to lay an egg.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
I don't recall where in the bible it says
Love thy neighbor, unless they are...
or
*Do unto others as you would have them
do unto you, unless...*
Of course, if you're quoting bible verse
or any form of religious doctrine
you're in a lot of trouble anyway!
These words tend to contradict themselves.
That, and you're quoting a book,
not your soul.
Maybe some of your soul
is in those sacred pages,
but definitely not all.
And why are you scouring books
trying to learn how to live your life?
The answers aren't in there anyway,
at least not whole ones.
The answers are in you!
God is you! You are god!
You are created from particles that inhabit the universe!
You are the universe!
YOU ARE NATURE!
YOU ARE ALL!
All the answers are in you,
just have to know where to look.
Just have to remember,
just have to remember
just have to remember...
just have to remember
we are god, the universal ONE
creators of our own habitats
& sustaining celestial universes of friends and family.
Like the universal ONE
we make and create life
from ****** cosmic big bang howls hurling white rock into feminine space only for a star child to be born over time.
Billions of lives reside & crawl within skin walls, cavernous intestines & ride on vein roads controlled by the omnipotent electrical awareness called the ONE brain & son mind.
Each new friendship & connection is its own universe and some expand too quickly fizzling out with a deflated echo of "It's not you, it's me," and returned DVD's
while others cultivate and grow gradually sustaining a millenia lifetime of cafune, pumpkin pancakes in bed, Facebook photos and winks.
We are the ONE where all the answers reside,
just need to have the heart to look inside
to find your higher calling is to honor thyself
as you would the univer-SOUL ONE.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
the locomotive moves steadily across the tracks, puffing thick black smog into the air, never a whine until you pull the breaks.
the great rolling beast carries its prey, flaming fauna displaced from their rocky habitats, that wait to be swallowed up and converted to new life.
the procession of metal bodies traverses across worlds, taking its indomitable wheels into the tundra, the prairie, the urban jungle, at speeds unknown to lesser beings— or even the creators themselves.
but the mighty locomotive does not just conquer mountains and valleys, cities and forests alike.
it takes friends, partners, clients on the journey.
the smallest ones fall into slumber and breathe soundly, blending with the giant’s hum.
as the client’s size increases, their alert eyes dart across the land as the train rips through gravel, rock, and earth; a pasture of horses may be seen and addressed accordingly.
the full grown passenger opens their notebook, jotting down thoughts, identification numbers, budgets, letters, and the like.
they are often the assumed leaders within the belly of the beast, but the train knows of the true captain’s identity.
the final friends to name, the eldest in the cars.
they know the locomotive, being the on its quest across continents, possessing a gentle care with the resting of a hand upon the velvet organs of the beast.
the old ones know the displaced embers, rusted iron bones, cracked glass eyelids, and slowing wheels that come with conquered continents.
so, when the great train creaks to a stop, the elders exist their trusty cars, leave a tip for the porter, and whisper a quiet “thank you” to the train before stepping cautiously onto the oak platform below.
from the locomotive, never a whine, not even to beckon its favorite patrons farewell.
Dec 16, 2021
Dec 16, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC