Transit In The Rain

The carriage shakes on the tracks
As though winters breath induces friction,
To the left the river storms its frustration
At summers end, breaks undefended hands,
Grappling with the woes, that frost is soon to come,
The trees haemorrhage golden red to barren ground,
The remnants of death, ghostly battalion bound
For whispers between the years, before home,
Their tattered remains are lain within the cracks
Of memories, held by those too late to stand.
A branch hangs, a noose around its neck,
Speckled with tears of sap and sorrow,
As over head a murder of crows sing a chorus
Of offerings bent on nothing other than hollow
Wants, there are no seeds to feed cold porous
And empty bellies in such a dying season,

The right holds life, cascading reason
And feelings that autumn brings shrink wrapped
Safety away from beasts of torture that clap
Imperial and inpatient hands upon the world,
There is no peace when such Devils route
Amongst the stars, devouring every hope,
I closed my tired eyes to the kaleidoscope
Of flashing white and pink sunlight, breaking
Through the passing brush, long, drawn out,
Stretching forward and toppling deep, fading,
Into the fine reemergence, exposed grasps
Come to minds once more, subtle laps
Of conscious will, concise and convinced
Of out dated ruinations to another play.

All the world’s a stage, is there another way?
There! It had come – the moment – the geste,
The fictitious phantoms haunt mournings guests,
Was it possible that changing passage
Stowed away between loving dead leaves?
She said, “How were our tears to fill reservoirs
When all we had was pretence before the ravage
Of lost love and foraged hopes for yesteryear?”
She came to little more than midwinter’s eve,
Torn between loss and life, she cries,
“How do you say goodbye to absent fathers?”
The only thing more natural is tenderness
Masquerading beneath the surface lies,
Should there be reaction to another?
“I fill your soul within my emptiness”

Where were you when the showers came?
Could it be anymore than a second rate sequel?
The credits role in silver haired shame,
A love story that never quite reaches equal
Hopes and dreams, where do we start?
As the carriage roles down fractions tracks,
The railroad to decorums dancing heart,
Whose tattered remains are lain within her cracks,
I sleep, waiting for your little truths,
Seeing only shadows holding our deus ex machina…

Poem © Phen Weston 2014


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