Like A Runaway Train

Sometimes I think about the future.
I think about the time coming, roaring
down on us like a runaway train
in the silent frozen landscape
of history not yet born.
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In that time, perhaps these halls
these empty rooms occupied by
the outpourings of my wakeful soul
and bright quick mind and visions of eyes
that see beyond around the bend
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will be wandered by real people with hands
hungry to touch, and know, and join with
my desperate lonely shouts and dances,
my perhaps pas de deux with Vincent and
his swirly starry nights hidden for years
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Because right now?  The halls are empty, the rooms
cold and dusty, and the cover-sheets of familiarity
and current contempt so casual drape
masterpieces and treasures and living
songspaintingspoemssculpturesintheair
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I refuse to give in to the abandonment
thrown at me in glances that brush, stare
and walk by an embarrassment of riches
and I console myself with the comfort
of delusion and daydream that time
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will finally thunder thru this station
brakes blazing sparks flying
iron rails red hot with inertia interrupted
and smoking with steamy melty insistence
that here there be dragons and dreams
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and worthy immortal thoughts
of forever and forever
higher up
and
deeper in
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7 thoughts on “Like A Runaway Train

    • If I am honest? Grace Notes has become a ghost town. There is one set of eyes been gone half a year (albeit with good reason) and my poems shiver naked and clutch their sheeny skin to themselves with shivery fingers longing for those clothes that pair of eyes gives…

      It is like people have withdrawn their spirits and hearts into shells like tortoises…or perhaps they are in hibernation?

      My thoughts never stop, they run like open cuts in Mercury’s arm bleeding quicksilver…

      I struggle hard! Cus they SING to me, they dance and move and pulse and throb and live…and then slowly like a bellows closing they go flat flat flat and then just exist, mere 2 dimensional blathering words, and maybe someday to be discovered by someone who is lit up by them?

      Who knows…the feelings of futility do not negate the power in the things I see, so the failure must be in the writer, alas.

      • The failure is not in the writer, my friend. You are a beautiful writer. BEAUTIFUL!
        Though, it’s easy to feel that way. As I mentioned in my e-mail this morning, sometimes it feels like it’s more about engaging and staying active on other sites than it is about actual writing. I’ve seen this first hand. Last year, I purposefully disconnected from most of WP – I would write periodically, engage almost never and my halls grew quiet, too. For awhile, I used to feel hurt and unheard when a favorite friend didn’t read or comment, but then I realized that everyone has a life outside our literary hallways. Who knows what keeps a person away? There’s so much outside of our control, so all we can do is write what’s in our hearts and either people will read it or they won’t. I know personally, I don’t get over to visit as often as I want, but it’s a comfort knowing how prolific you are, that I will always find something that I’m destined to read at the very time that I’m supposed to.

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