My love,
My fairest,
Lifestyle of the damned, extravagant.
Goodbye for now and long.
Don't fret,
Take a puff, and another.
Raise your fist to the silent sky,
outside terminal four.
I'm going where,
Old Greeks would cheat and bargain and lie,
Just to avoid.
No,
Not Styx,
Somewhere worse.
A sea of wailing, wrathful souls.
Drowning and killing each other would be too much compliment to where I'm heading.
What lies ahead, across the sea isn't hell.
It's indifference,
It's gray and damp sky.
And a lack of meaningful conversation.....
No, not England either.
Worse.
It's where words reached but not identified.
It's where I would falter and smile at the bastards in line, alike.
Cheap suits,
Fake laughs,
Water down, fake booze,
Greasy tongues,
Ignorance engulfs em missing souls.
Where it was birthed along their mother's womb.
Discarded by doctors like umbilical cord.
Going through life like stamping a gift card,
They never got on the train.
The conductor blocks their entrance with a pole.
"Terribly sorry.
I think you'd be more comfortable taking a flight. With services by a button's push, servants and microwaves. Beds you couldn't stretch your legs upon. And you'd be at the destination in a blink of an eye."
So raise your fist, partner.
Now we hold it against our chest.
And as the train on stop,
I lower my chin,
Straighten my collar.
Hunch my back.
Off the stairs.
Departure.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoésieI wanted to resonate some undefined emotions that ain't as tacky as a word. A small collection of poems I wrote when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
