When you remove the rails, straight lines fade from the vocabulary of trains. I just posted something like this, but this one's different. Or not.
Confusion is commonly found where I stand.
Chasing the rainstorm, wishing it would blow my way,
Whispering a quiet huzzah in my heart,
Living on the verge of tears.
Sydney’s crayons,
Macaroni and grasshoppers,
Piecemeal poems,
Volumes said to the wind.
Useless usefulness.
Someone else can stir the pond; it’s clearer when it settles anyway.
The music in my words is twelve tone.
Abnormal rhythms and irregular rhymes, anthemic operas of dissonant dreams.
There’s no proving a thought to an unused mind.
What about a harbor keeps a ship afloat?
Frozen echoes of dances passed?
You’re yelling in my heart.
Like falling down stairs.
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