Train Station: Gazette Ft. Storyteller

[Spoken]

@Gazette

The Train Station.

midnight iron, snaking out like specters fingers, then melting in the mist
i would like to think their odyssey is over, and that they welcome the abyss
as tender as a kiss, these shingles and their watermarks - they speak to me
almost secretly ... a hundred years gone, a hundred years of grief to be
and what unsung tales have these puffs of brisk-departing smoke imbibed?
what many stories could be told and why - do open eyes behold them - blind?
those ochre tiles, tanned to character-perfection, by nervous cigarettes
scratches, dirt and hints of sweat; the signatures of phantoms, in swirls and pirouettes.

Originally Posted by Storyteller

Smoke grazes the pores that weep for attention,
As negligence was the perspective dropped as a message.
The steam rolls arrogance in abundance on tiers,
Amongst no names, friends who are far and near ones u call peers.
The sheer resonance of the day engulfs us an image,
While I'm painting prescription- digesting the pillage.
Dropping the children; advancing the rest to they're mark,
The place they call work or home or a new rave to embark.
Engaging the heart with warmth commission who starve,
Days I'd find at least one who travels to say they've come far.
Metal shards sparking a view that stops for admittance,
The carriage of adolescent to the first born of infants.
Exit signs amassed by shadows in reflections transmitted,
The enlightenment; purging sin of the past wrongfully committed.
Delve the line to ring service for the next stop strums the chord,
Off we go with new faces- every 30 minutes screaming all aboard

.
.
.
a beggars nose gulps coffee steam - snobbily, from her sumptuous throne of trash
no gumption's prone to last, but no one thought to tell Her Majesty; she couldn't stoke the ash
i guess it's a macabre song, this with such a gulfing jaw, that challenges one
to turn one's back on the Sun ... then chase the wheels of a pram as it tractors along
or amass with the throng - no better coat than the Rorschach smudge of busy strangers
no distance greater; backwards, forward, backwards, forward; forward with the width of vapor
i watch the tired carriages, shrugging along their shouldered clouds of people
eighty tons of frozen faces, homeless-nameless ... and I can't see one ounce of evil
i think, maybe, they're just like me ... you know? - trying to unravel truth
about life, about death - but ... what the Hell do I know ...? I'm merely passing through