I sit.
The thrum thrum of the tracks travel
through my core…
from the cold rolled steel on
a winter morn.
It’s coming; my train.
The vibrations are distant as
my tensions strain
against the boundaries set long
ago in a land made of
flimsy paper mache.
It’s imminently imminent
that time ticks ticks
on the whim of
a pendulum made of wooden sticks
Light it low,
and watch it burn bright.
And by all the laws
of physics time ticks
faster,
and faster as it burns
the length of its swing.
The whistle blows.
As I continue to
sit
sit
sit.
On the track, on this
cold
cold
morn.
For my train to come.
By Philip Warldow 2015
