11th May 2009

Ah, inkling.

A stripe of ink brushes my finger.

Hath they stopped or be moving slowly.
So speedily,
a destination yet to be revealed.

like all would feel in a state of mediocre
and barren despair.

Townhouses line the old streets that surround the battered rails.

Sleeping as one would in a case of lack-of-sleep,
I think of colours and rainbows and rather grey shadows.

A roll of film that seeks to be old does the same,
and grey flashes across my eyes;
silver bells on a chain,
metal frames on a train.

No doubt our minds keep echoing
“how do you get there?”

For no fences and boundaries and simple blue sky, will tell us,
it won’t be fair.
To drop from the sky like rain.