Wednesday, January 27, 2010

The Red Line

A screech and a long hiss.
Icy fingers dance on rosy cheeks,
their touch the sting of numb resentment.

Down, down, down and around,
from the street, the sun, the sky,
I wait in a cold tomb.

Silently the gaunt spectres glide,
looking ever onward for their
errant boatman.

Vacant eyes, vacant stares, vacant seats.
It's coming...The city exhales,
its breath reeks of sadness and loss.

My steel sarcophagus arrives,
carrying with it the last remains,
of a time of perfect happiness.

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