kazza_baby
Bluelighter
It is 7:30 in the morning but overhead spells out midnight.
Clouds overcast; The station is shrouded by a dull, dreary darkness, such
that even the honking of cars and the roar of their engines,
the splashing of angry footsteps over puddles and potholes
seem to drown in the silhouette of dusk.
It is a morning of demise.
Cold hot chocolate, a soggy breakfast.
An eclipse of the unconscious comes over the many early office-goers,
uniform-clad preschool, grade school, high school students with heavy bags in tow,
umbrellas at war - and the occasional plight of a collegiate misanthropist,
with the thought of class pushed, wedged deep back into the rear folds of the mind.
The train is down,
'it got struck by lightning', the paunchy security guard with beady eyes meagrely explains.
Go home, go back,
and walk through the sodden streets until your hair is wringing wet with disappointment, demise.
Smell the enchanting air of the morning wraith -
the scent of avenging rain and cigarette smoke from the cluster of call centre workers leaving the graveyard shift.
Stomp through the puddles once more and feel the cold, slimy wetness seep into your sneakers.
Go home, go back, there is nothing for you here.
At home the early news is on and she hears about the train.
It got struck by lightning, says the voice over.
An aerial camera zooms out and captures the tangled lines -
of what moves now like scurrying insects avoiding fat raindrops.
But these are cars,
these are people that the elements have left in a commotion,
bustling, buzzing, and marooned.
The lines stretch and snake past Boulevards and lanes,
up to roads and streets, the moon.
Reporters tell the public not to worry, do not hurry, get in line.
Get in line and pretend that office hours will wait for you to clock in,
the teacher will suspend marking your name with ‘absent,’
the world will gracefully regain its poise.
It is dark indeed and many do not yet know that five train stations were bombed in India last night.
And so, many persist;
it is now that many wait in line and switch their iPods into shuffle mode,
that she hangs her soaked jacket over the computer chair in her room.
Many run their fingertips across cold, drenched hair,
smoothing the strands down into a perfect, ugly, wet look finish,
and she takes strands of her own off her cheeks where they have stuck and crawls back to bed.
Do not worry, do not hurry, get in line. Go home, go back, there is nothing for you here.
We are all immovable between nature’s forces, beguiled by its foolishness,
ensnared by its promise.
Do not stare at her with mystified eyes and wake her from demise.
She is not the one in line, waiting for a train that will never come,
and an end that has already arrived.
Clouds overcast; The station is shrouded by a dull, dreary darkness, such
that even the honking of cars and the roar of their engines,
the splashing of angry footsteps over puddles and potholes
seem to drown in the silhouette of dusk.
It is a morning of demise.
Cold hot chocolate, a soggy breakfast.
An eclipse of the unconscious comes over the many early office-goers,
uniform-clad preschool, grade school, high school students with heavy bags in tow,
umbrellas at war - and the occasional plight of a collegiate misanthropist,
with the thought of class pushed, wedged deep back into the rear folds of the mind.
The train is down,
'it got struck by lightning', the paunchy security guard with beady eyes meagrely explains.
Go home, go back,
and walk through the sodden streets until your hair is wringing wet with disappointment, demise.
Smell the enchanting air of the morning wraith -
the scent of avenging rain and cigarette smoke from the cluster of call centre workers leaving the graveyard shift.
Stomp through the puddles once more and feel the cold, slimy wetness seep into your sneakers.
Go home, go back, there is nothing for you here.
At home the early news is on and she hears about the train.
It got struck by lightning, says the voice over.
An aerial camera zooms out and captures the tangled lines -
of what moves now like scurrying insects avoiding fat raindrops.
But these are cars,
these are people that the elements have left in a commotion,
bustling, buzzing, and marooned.
The lines stretch and snake past Boulevards and lanes,
up to roads and streets, the moon.
Reporters tell the public not to worry, do not hurry, get in line.
Get in line and pretend that office hours will wait for you to clock in,
the teacher will suspend marking your name with ‘absent,’
the world will gracefully regain its poise.
It is dark indeed and many do not yet know that five train stations were bombed in India last night.
And so, many persist;
it is now that many wait in line and switch their iPods into shuffle mode,
that she hangs her soaked jacket over the computer chair in her room.
Many run their fingertips across cold, drenched hair,
smoothing the strands down into a perfect, ugly, wet look finish,
and she takes strands of her own off her cheeks where they have stuck and crawls back to bed.
Do not worry, do not hurry, get in line. Go home, go back, there is nothing for you here.
We are all immovable between nature’s forces, beguiled by its foolishness,
ensnared by its promise.
Do not stare at her with mystified eyes and wake her from demise.
She is not the one in line, waiting for a train that will never come,
and an end that has already arrived.
