The trains have years that don't take us anywhere, the compartments unused and empty. Staring at the tracks and the weeds that have grown in places I can't help but think of the weeds in the cracks of my damned body. I want to reach out my good hand and pluck them out, throw them far away or cook them up. I want to reach out, but my hands stay glued inside my pockets as I stare down at the tracks.
The trains have years that don't take us anywhere.
YOU ARE READING
poetry from cold autumn days
Poetrysomething something something... fancy description *throws confetti in the air from out of pockets* poetry. 🎞🎞🎞
