i used to climb the tallest tree
just to leave behind the ground
sing as loud as i could breathe
about the shapes of passing clouds

mum would haller up to the heavens:
             "STOP IT !"
... "they’ll think you’re Mad!"

... whoever  "they"   were  (?)!
    i naively pondered thence  ―

    now,     the tree is gone,
       "they" chopped  it  
         all the way down
to memories and decomposing roots

    but i still see life unspool
    in the silent shapes of clouds

                    and
  hear the birds sing sweetly
     without a single word


☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☼  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁
                   jesse

You'll always be my favorite kind of film. The sitcom without the laugh tracks or a romance without the actors. The kind of irony that could make me laugh till it hurt. The way I went from pining for you to vivisecting you against the metal of a surgical table, because maybe if I cracked open that soft, stupid flesh I'd finally be able to understand why. How you unspool me, all these years between us but you're still the only boy that's ever made me cry without hitting me first. Mum says she liked me better before I got off the pills. Honestly, I only cut them up once they're dead mother, we all have our hobbies.  I used to rewrite scene after scene of the woulda-coulda-shoulda's of our script and hide them from you. I used to be a lot of things. Don't we all miss me on pills.

Catatonic fusion with bathroom tile
vapor patina about my lattice
neophyte - les enfants - lain there
my fingers dipped beneath ribs
diaphragm compressed - ***** tatting saliva
I firmly grasp the seam-ripper and unspool
aortic tissue
extracting one thread at a time
tying the fist in a knot
releasing kinetic ****** each time
I attempt
enigmatic repair

the driftwood fits perfectly in my palm
I unspool the seaweed from its taper
furling it about my finger

my marriage to the sea was disputed
with a tiny crab that day
gentle tug-o-war with my heart
and my eruptive roar
echoing his staunch request
to keep his algae blanket - and home
the equivalent of a cardboard box in childhood

i tie myself to her every blue move
then try to pull out,
unspool,
the knot in myself
so i
follow you both home
then bruise in the black
hide in the bush
you’ve been beating around
write my petty poems
swallow my love
feel the cold creep
the glossy warmth
you hold i now
cradle memory to my
red cheeks
so i
unlatch my tongue
from my loyal teeth
and
let the blood run
into someone else’s mouth
you know I’ve always seen in green

Unspool your foggy self-
importances and seize the sheer, visceral present,
or simply ladle and spoon
the strait and narrow. Truth skims
the surface of the mind's eye -
immediacy and brutality (always your specialties)
are to be expected, even pursued,
the loosening of mind and its swindling of body
sifted under opportunistic eyes.

(I imagine tragedies rolling like marbles in your ivoried hands).

Well Trump thinks he's found an ally
And he's ah shill, to Trump ah thrill
He's as broken as Texas asphalt
With Paxton came his crooked game

So leave Wisconsin alone
Leave Wisconsin alone
It’s not for you to plead
Elections been decreed

You shouldn't be here, your case is *****
Your words unspool, brakes all the rules
He just lies so to gain his entry
Into Trump's world, his case unfurled

So leave Wisconsin alone
Leave Wisconsin alone
Its not like you don't see
An election as clean can be

Some Supreme Court day the hands of time
Will have their way
You’ll understand why what you do is not okay

Trump's a loser, he’s not the winner
He still finds hoods to do no good
He only wants to get praise and money
Cadillacs and rust, diamonds and dust

So leave Wisconsin alone
Leave Wisconsin alone
It's not like you don't see
An election as clean can be

Yeah, leave us Sconnies alone
Leave us Sconnies alone
He’s not like you and me
He needs to let us be

inject me with every insecurity
deny me my foresight
scoop my eye sockets dry
with silver spoons from childhood plight
turn the corners of my mouth upward with pins
in stifling approvable of your apathy
rip my teeth from root so i cannot express
grief and wild unrest
burn me of my tongue
make it so i struggle to say your name
twist and mangle my wrists
bend my fingers back
(one, two, three)
listen to the splintering bone
the intoxicating frailty
listen like your favorite song
the fading circulation in hi-fi stereo (on repeat)
bend my back for you
turn away as my spine snaps
under weight from mild neglect
unravel my nerves
string them like a guitar
play me a discord
cut me open with sharp words
and leave me exposed
slide my discs
until i’m weak in the knees
string me up by my ankles
and sever my feet to gain inches on me
peel back my skin
bind my veins
tether them to floor boards and ideas of leaving me
watch as the desperation seeps from me
tangle my hair and pull it back
like weighty curtains from my skull cap
crack me open
unspool my brains
re-wire my circuitry
introduce color then reverse it back
blow your breath into my ear
let it circle and suffocate me
will me not to feel
it will only complicate me
pull the desperation from the air
my fixed, heavy rain cloud
drape me with uncertainty
cover me in soot and paint me a burden
set me on fire
leave a thought
let it continue to escape me
you dot your “i’s” with crippling intensity
dripping in heartfelt symphonies
my velveteen,
you are a looming aftertaste
a foundation
a voracious hunger
to set roots deep within bone

Unlike Narcissus drowning,
As though in a puddle
Of his own courage drought,
Her time she gives away freely.
Like stopping her own gears;
Let it and all her mechanisms
Flow outward.


At night she seeks the glass.
Unspool her hair, she combs
Her musings, the yards she's given
To every inch-worth endeavor.
Generous, her heart and hope spring.
Gray, the world, and short, her time.
And she's never belonged
As truly as she does to her own head.


And in her mirror, there are colors
that dye the glass and allow
the best to shine in,
like stained windows in a church.
Under hers she prays.


Happy you may think the woman
Who sees what she likes under glass.
Would it could be preserved forever.
But who is to bring her flowers?
Who knows what kind to bring?


Which man can give the compliments
she’d most delight to receive?
What rites for each aspect of her visage?
No eyes could flatter like hers.
See in her Goddess Myth any fragility
to stand up to reflect the inner soul.


But you can’t put lungs in the looking glass,
And breathe air into those lungs.
Though she wants to pull
a gender-swapped mirror image
out into the world, her other half
is the man from Backwards Land.
It would have to be the reverse.
Else he'd expect to see his mirror image;
not to be the double of hers.

no matter what the peak arcs all descend
unto the earth from which they first arose
that's the most certain the most profound trend
even for one who best withstands the blows
of evil fortune or of cruel fate
falls to despair then rises to high state
no epoch should be measured by one rule
yet we insist that far beyond the cool
and shaded halls where measure has its sway
all things are governed by a simple tool
so each becomes the hero of their day

just past its height the moment seems to bend
with all the weight of ages that could close
cold time's long judgment that will never mend
either warm eyes or the dull hearts that froze
from lack of feeling or the heavy freight
of knowledge that would rise and not abate
from the bright ocean to the chiefly stool
while other wisdoms might in time unspool
we were not shown the truth but in one way
which was to lead us all back into school
so each becomes the hero of their day

there's nothing more on which we must depend
between the morning and the next repose
when all the hours will with clean music blend
so that our thoughts will come out sweeter prose
all of our motion take a smoother gait
while vision leave  us with no dark to hate
returning light finds each beside a pool
bright with our hopes and in the morning cool
though being clear and apt enough for play
we can be certain that none is a fool
so each becomes the hero of their day

we have been warned against the last misrule
of ancient dodderers sunk in their drool
their grimaces the doltish things they say
enough to know we're past this basic school
so each becomes the hero of their day

Sandbox constructs, talk to me.
Play to me.
Dancing straw, pull on the wind,
give color and shape, give name.
I will be straw too one time, then many times,
and will dance with the straw in the wind.
These are joyful times, all alone, no interference. No you.

Mouse you sneaks in the sandbox,
chews on my straw and nests in my sand.
In possession of some key.

(I want to ask about the key, but I can’t.
I am supposed to be made of straw.)

Perturbed, I chase you out.
My world of sand and straw is too fragile for your beating heart.
It will fall apart, will be rubbed raw and threadbare.
But you sneak in again,
and look at me as if I am not straw,
and the ground as if it is not sand
but solid earth, rich and full.

Clearing the board I start over.
Drive you out
and begin to map out the pattern of this cloth.
Time begins to unspool, following its slow track.
Joyful in this beginning, this gradual awakening.
Patience.
Humility.

I never know when (or if) you’re going to appear.
So often the game plays out without a hitch,
or you appear so late that it makes no difference.
But I hear your heartbeat now: the rapid thudding,
and know you are here.
A mouse nuzzling through the straw,
invading the gentle morning of this world
when all may be ruined, all may be averted.

Bold, undisguised you,
and I, perfect shaft of damp straw;
it does not fool you.
Discovered at the worst moment,
tender and caught.
You, unruffled by the wind, realizing the position you’re in.
Realizing the position I’m in:
holding all the keys but unprepared to use them.

You have your own plans and ideas.
You dance around me,
playing provocateur, trying to make me
show my hand, my key.
I pretend I don’t know what you’re up to.
I hope you lose interest and give up.
Hope a chance wind sweeps you up,
like a great swell from the sea,
and I never see you again.
Hope you suddenly doubt yourself, blinking,
finally convinced by my damp posing,
my mute bafflement and loyalty to the wind
and wonder, isn’t this straw?

Dare I play your game?
Dare I nod to your tune?

I use one of my keys.
Walk through a door that shouldn’t open,
you at my heels, all eager to see backstage,
to see the actor who plays me.

You already know what you have known since you saw my face.
The same face you have seen dancing in and out
of pale replicas of borrowed worlds.

And finally I let you hear from my lips
what you have suspected the whole time.
That I am not the straw or the sand or even the wind.
That I know you aren’t either.
That I know that you know.
That yes, it was a character and it was a role.
That it was a game I play, usually alone.

“It was just for light fun and idle amusement,” I say.
“Nothing was at stake.
So why the sabotage?”

Then, in spite of our twin hearts,
I see how different you are from me.
What calms me enrages you.
What worries me soothes you.
What I call “light fun and idle amusement”
you call “life and death.”
“Everything was at stake,” you say.
You say, “this world is full, full to the brim. People just like you.”

Fool.
Don’t you realize where you are?
Look around, it is a world of sand and straw
blowing in the wind.

Yank the headlines,
They're just vintage tape disguised;
Force the months to run to you,
Unspool like tired ribbons in your cupped palms.

Be generous with the scissors,
Rip apart the snippets that candy the truth,
Commit glamour-shot genocide to avoid
That little green glint of jealousy in your eye-

It's a useless emotion, and time will fly
Quicker without it nipping your ankles-

But pull them, beat their crawl into a sprint
And if they won't come,
Commission extra strength from the wind

Until you're gurgling ink and it's everywhere,
Political names that mean less to you now
Heaving their last breaths on your fingertips
Like tired wasps drowned in honey.

Pull until Doomsday is splattered across your window
And the fruit is rotting in its bowl
And the frenzied radio is yelling
Like a banshee the slogan
That puts a layer of ice into your liver-

History repeats itself
And the blood runs like a river.

Depression hits you
Whether you want it to or not
And you can't explain yourself to anyone
And you can't expect them to understand
And you try not to be a *****
And you try to use kind words
And you want to feel normal again
And you want to pull yourself together
So you wake up, take a shower, go for a walk
and sleep
You eat lunch, call your family, watch a show
and sleep
You're not hungry for dinner, but you eat dessert
And as the sun sets
You let your mind unspool
Remembering who you used to be
Facing yourself in the mirror
With bags under your eyes
And disappointment in your chest
All you can seem to do
Is turn the lights off
Lay in bed
Pull the covers up
and sleep

Cedar bark smokes with a spark, rubbed tinder bundle, powder
The power of a flame in the dark, a distant spark, Prometheus liver sandwich
Dam it up, the whole **** cut, this little holler
Living in squalor in the back room of a double wide, theres only one road in and out
You're trapped now, the rat went to far in, got greedy
Like the monkey with rice in his paw, they're coming with hammers and bone saws
Watch your heart thaw, right in front of you, new shoes stained sanguine
Fine wine got your head spinning friend, gulp it down and experience a real end
Inebriation on a higher station, drunk off this relaxation I forgot how to do
Unwind and unspool, two men in a duel, who draws quicker?
Is speed swifter, or should you take your time?
Another place, nother' rhyme, I'm the reason my momma cries

How is
the ribbon of time
stored?

When did it
unspool?

Can you not
see it

Curl
this way

then that

a fast
meandering

of showers
hungry mutts

do I
make this bed

in time
for bed

or pull it to order
with feet underneath

sheets and dogs
as grumbly weights

this time ride
my head thrown to the side

glimpsing you
celluloid hero

read feeler
at dawn

your eyes
should be closed

your head
thrown back

snorting arcane



Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis

This subdued wordsmith
doth not rack his brains to **** fess appeal
toward one household pop starlet.

He blithely, nonchalantly, and willingly
add mitts audiological enjoyment, sans the lithe
hot feline Taylor Swift - I might be
the only baby boomer ****** mwm,
who admires this talented singer/songwriter,
yet owns NO (absolute zero)  
aspirations beyond composing poems or prose
toward divine dame.

A questionable attempt to stitch together –
analogous to knot sew swift a tailor,
this scribe sought to create a poem
(crafted countless years ago)
from her then song titles spanning
the letter “A” to the letter “H.”

Despite never setting eyes
(AND MOST Definitely NOT PAWS),
this grateful dead corpse of a skeleton
(essentially lovely bare bones),
when alive I found one gal powerhouse,
(asper the title of this informal homage)
genuinely fashioned, entirely
dutifully composed, benevolently addressed
as an attraction among
the wonders of the
world wide web, confidently enduring,
gracefully immensely known,
mainly not overly prone to quibble
regarding her less outstanding
musical and lyrical confections.

This doggone muttering pooch
bow wows against
nattering nabobs of negativism
able, eager, ready, and willing
bugaboos countering, dispelling, excoriating...
courtesy unsustained denunciations
against latent natural born talents
of aforementioned musician,
whereby pulp magazines make mincemeat
hammering, nailing, and wrenching
storied accomplishments
never yanking off the top of list
of solo women musical artists
who sold the most number one albums.

Before the advent vis a vis
crafting this literary challenge
incorporating a poetic endeavor
predicated on prolific tunes
comprising audiophile of Taylor Swift,
(and thus a prescript interim),
as iterated above,
a whim took hold to string
her partial song playlist
(quite substantial even up to
BUT NOT including the letter “I”).

This scribe dabbled, hocked, and limned
what evolved into a semi satisfactory effort,
to articulate, copacetic, enigmatic, generic,
ironic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic,
quixotic, scholastic, ultra democratic,
holistic yik yak paddy whack
give this bard a bon bon.

Adieu admit to elaborating, jovially,
and openly leave readers second guessing,
(what might easily be labeled,
misconstrued, and nullified as gobbledygook),
asper how mashup song titles
got figuratively slapped together
as a feebly note worthy attempt
to put down sew sew pontoon
swiftly tailored literary bridges
in an effort to connect a cumbersome,
fulsome, and irksome pseudo
straight forward itemized songs
sung by said seductive singular sylph..

Thee Mademoiselle found,
or made a place in the world for yourself
aching like a boy out in left field
pining to catch that high fly
there ain't nothing 'bout you,
(nor Brooks and Dunn) I can attest
even if hypothetically,
we spent eons at an all night diner,
where culinary staff knew thee all too well
and perhaps all you wanted
(shared with Michelle Branch)
perhaps positing the rhetorical question –
am I ready for love?

With an American boy
or a ***** best buddy
re: best friend forever with an American girl
if someone got cross, tis beneficial
(in this one republic) to apologize
regardless, whom ye choose as a confidante,
the following refrain plays in your mind
baby don't you break my heart slow
(at least according to Vonda Shepard)
memories no doubt arise,
when thee hapt to be a baby girl

thoughts unspool back to December
beautiful eyes peered
at a fractured reflection
before the love story
would begin again,
while ebbing, and flowing with my baby
recalling Bette Davis' eye
(taking visual delight
fantastic world tour live)
reminding self how better off
the choice made

tis much better than revenge
but umpteen times bother I will
asper boys and love
combustible mix – nonetheless
always reminding myself to breathe
deep, cuz being breathless
likened to a taste of death,
(I admit better than Ezra)
learning how to act points back
asper being brought up that way
lessons oft learned getting busted.

Oh...and by the way can I go with you?

Can you feel the love tonight?

Discern ache kin to sand castles crumbling?

Such granular, or solid state matter
doth forced to change
attested to by chaperone dads,
who dressed as Santa Claus invoked
that Christmas must be something more
especially, Christmases,
when you were mine
ah...closest to a cowboy
as “sigh” ever got
or tasting Gunstock rattlesnake pulverized,

yet countenance goose
(and found you under the care of Chet Atkins
at the make believe medical center)
shivered flesh against cold as you
though desiring thee to come back...he here
no doubt prone
to announce crazier requests asked
even crazier (as demonstrated
by flash mob generated
by Hannah Montana, one live wire)

if able to glean my sentiments...
cross my heart
aware as an adult feeling
the life source of daddy
or mommy, while hinting
with a stone temple piloted cold stare
double dare you to move
(or switchfoot), one to another
das feet – planted within
pitch dark blue Tennessee

dwelling with thoughts
of ma dear Digdan
or writing an imaginary letter
starting...”dear John”
ample melancholy maudlin material
to completely bind a diary of me
yes concert cavorting circumstances
avoidable, though didn't they
make chase like butterflies,
and don't they hate me for loving you?

So please don't tell me you want to,
when I don't want to anymore
argh, yet impossibly unshakable
the recurring thought don't you
act indiscriminately
as when down came the rain,
washed the spied her out
following suit (wet)
drenching yea...one drama queen
with chin amen along pearl
(jammed) harbor drive
(in conjunction with alan jackson)
presaging Jiving drops of Jupiter
(train chugging, clacking, clattering
railing gestalt of alien nation),

and all of a sudden like how odd though...
thinking about eighth grade graduate,
when lifetime seemed enchanted
now everything has changed
eyes open (“hunger games”)
maketh me – fall back on you
instant messaging you –
fall into me fearless,
though only fifteen
and how against pyrotechnics,
you find your way back home
on the fourth of July
perhaps led by a zeppelin sized firefly
ah, I ask myself who is the foolish one?

Me for you forever & always
(a platinum edition)
for girl at home
(donned in deluxe edition)
going bananas
in reference to Amazing Gracie
swaggering, and immune
to gunpowder & lead,
(whose leading lady Miranda Lambert)
whatsapp penned left her looking haunted
heartbreaker – (my words –
like the late Tom Petty)
about her, but unsure
if our thoughts aligned

anyway, here you go again (Dolly Parton)
a hero heroine
so...I clamor to yell out “hey soul sister”
and hey Stephen
along the boulevard of broken dreams,
this ribbon highway don't care
about trumpeting his lies
nor desecrating holy ground
honey baby, yes ye in the mom jeans,
I feel hopelessly devoted to you
(as didst Olivia Newton)
instinctively keen how to save a life
bobbing buoyantly amidst the fray.

We all find our own
Rocky road to hell.

Some unspool thread
Or scatter bread-
Crumbs

To sustain the way home.

For some it is beatrice
Angelically swaying

For me it Lady J

Patiently waiting

being analogous to a
limp biscuit viz
wussy wonky *****,
yet back in the day
rolling in hay worm
may at large cavorted
frolicked, and idealized
as a warm fuzzy.

Though aforementioned title
slightly risqué and silly,
yours truly dwells in Schwenksville,
approximately an hour drive
northwest from Philly,
a geographic enclave flush with
seeds of life and White Lily
hometown of mine reminiscent
of Lake Woebegone
similarly verdant and hilly.

Today I bubble with gumption and glee
riding a crest of carefree euphoria prithee
within Netherlands home to Zuiderzee.

Now yours truly lets thoughts unspool
as they popup like mushrooms
after a soaking rain
and flash across consciousness
hoping to hammer somewhat
comprehensible poetic product
wrought courtesy tool
of me noggin
stream of consciousness school
meanders and follows no particular rule.

Despite being rescued
from blimey and ******
ten thousand cannibals yippee,
where before escaping xi
shark infested cyber sea,
I nearly fell prey to piranhas we
dulling their way think valley
girls enlisting themselves
to be worshipped
as omnipotent trustee
trumpeting themselves
as shaykhah of chic re:

to do bidding of commoners
heavily guarding, ousting,
and thwarting stiff contenders
for commodification, commiseration,
commercialization, communication
and glory of riches q.e.d.,
quod erat demonstrandum
selling one soul to the devil
what a pity

exploitation, juxtaposition, opposition
temptation teasing proletariat offeree,
who seductively utter née
all the while vicarious thrilling
analogous to shady subterfuges
within dark wide web
bloodhounds (created courtesy
artificial intelligence) ripping asunder
supposedly airtight code,

while proficient hackers punching
virtual holes at Norton and McAfee
and other logistics wizards to protect data
laugh demonically, hysterically,
maniacally, sadistically, and zestfully
at those payees party as licensee
guardians of regal materialistic realm
do as I saith - speaketh bourgeoisie.

There was a time I carried hurt
like a second skin—
every crack and scar a story I told myself,
a story I swore was true.

I cradled that pain like a child,
fed it, sang to it, let it grow inside me,
until its roots tangled with my ribs,
its leaves whispered in my lungs.
It became so familiar,
I forgot what it was like
to breathe without its weight.

But healing is a quiet rebellion.
It does not storm in;
it tiptoes like a sunrise,
peeling back the dark
layer by tender layer.

One day, I stopped asking why
and started asking how.
How do I unspool this thread of hurt?
How do I make space for the truth?
Not the truth I told myself to survive,
but the truth that sets me free.

It turns out, healing isn't forgetting.
It isn’t pressing rewind
or pretending the hurt was never there.
It’s holding it up to the light,
examining every jagged edge,
and saying, “I see you. But you don’t own me.”

I am learning that letting go
isn’t a loss; it’s a choice.
To let the past rest
without dragging it behind me.
To forgive—not for them, but for me.
To unclench my fists and find my palms
open, ready to hold joy again.

And now, as I walk forward,
I am lighter,
like a bird that has finally noticed
the sky has always been there,
waiting,
ready to carry me home.

In laborious anguish, cries that cracked the earth
window panes which shook with bellowed pains
Remus and Romulus, Abel and Cain given birth
Solomon, split us in twain
keep the whole, lose the attached brain

I welcome the poison into my life
it knocks and I let it in
and I ***** my guts as they unspool from my mouth
o'er the blade of my knife
soaked in the despair of eternal night that has yet to begin
I embrace the arms of ******, the hold of mutilation
arms of Hades take me away from the journey and to the destination
they whisper and mutter as he passes by there's the one with the open neck
who carries a dead soul on his shoulder
they don't know, those crows, whose lips for feed they peck
as our eyes roll over

A fine upstanding gentleman, my brother himself presents
with blood reeking on his hands, my brother himself resents
a killer with no intentions, ambitions, no control he does not relent
the finest necromancy combined a whole soul with the partial,
they cut the head off and preserved it in a jar, the baby's skull
his eyes open, turning in viscous liquids, tracking them wherever they are
an empty vessel for the monger who takes over, the wound beneath the scar
there is a dead man walking, being carried in the chest of an exiled noble
a dead man who longs for rest, who never chose to live
a ghost that haunts this disfigured puppet, strangling on the reins he gives

Now make your flesh dance!
Raise hairs, buds of skin, and a scimitar high!
If you will not discover your past,
your superstition will be your undoing and you will die
fall upon your sword at last,
let me out,
the jar tips over, the baby's head cries
let me out!
A man seemingly impales himself in a fit of madness
cursed by voices and murderous streaks of violence
he leaves only a stench in the street behind-
though finally, a being cursed to be trapped inside returns to its own mind
only to occupy a severed head that by sick magick managed to survive
and is to this day, millennia later, on a necromancer's shelf, in a jar, being kept alive.

The train didn’t leave the station—
it just waited for me to give up chasing it,
its engine a wolf panting in the dark,
smoke curling into the air
like the echo of a laugh,
a smirk I couldn’t outrun.

I ran because stopping felt like failure.
I ran like if I reached it, I’d finally be enough.
I ran until my lungs screamed,
until the soles of my shoes
wore whispers into the gravel.
I swore I heard it call my name,
but maybe it was just the wind,
mocking the way I mistook movement
for meaning.

For a moment, it slowed—
just enough to make me believe
I could catch it,
just enough to make me think
it wanted me there.

The train didn’t leave.
It sat there,
watching me unspool myself,
mile by mile,
breaking like an old clock
that refused to tick.

I thought if I ran fast enough,
I could earn its departure—
prove I was worthy of being left behind.
But it was never about speed.
It was about surrender,
about learning that some things
stay still just to watch you fall apart.

The train never moved.
It stayed quiet,
its shadow stretching long,
swallowing me whole,
burying me in forgetting.

I stopped running.
And that’s when I realized—
the train was never waiting for me.
It was waiting to remind me
that some things linger like shadows,
stretching long enough
to teach you how to let go.