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