Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Somewhere, distant,
we hear the traveler’s bell
jingling on his cane,
as he wishes the
road well.

Let’s step between
the rails, and feel the
billow of our kerchief-sails
pull us toward The Traveler,
as she jingles in
ourselves.

This place, forgotten
by the trains,
is meant to lead us
to better things.

But, unlike those
noisy beasts, we
can step off

any time we please.


©️ 2018.

 

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