I.
You are at a train station,
Waiting for Time to pass by,
To tip its hat at you politely as it secretly steals,
Steals your youth, your memories,
Its heavy tick inevitably eroding away at your skin,
Criss-crossing and zig-zagging deep valleys and canyons
In that once firm and smooth skin,
Only the bright sunlight bribes you out
With her gentle tentacles reaching into the dark,
Ominous abyss of your mind,
Where nothing is seen nor heard but only felt,
The feeling of the cold linoleum under your smooth feet,
The feeling of moisture, forming droplets on your forehead,
Peeling down your face in a race to end it all,
Yet you keep waiting,
Waiting for that train to kindle your esoteric instinct again.

II.
Wondering,
Why do flowers bloom?
Why does the Earth spin around the brilliant sun?
Why are there so many people when there is so little Time?
Thoughts tick back and forth like a pendulum,
Lulling you into a deep trance
You can see the hollow sky,
The green turmoil of the sea,
The infernal symmetry of the yellow sun,
You see them all,
You feel them all,
The air suddenly gasps and comes to life,
It whips around you in harsh flurries,
As if the darkness was something you could hold in your hand,
As if it was a silky ribbon,
Wrapping you in its tight embrace,
Tighter and tighter until you can no longer breathe,
Until you let go of everything, anything,
The train station vanishes,
The sun disappears,
The sky is wiped clean
Like a window glass,
All that remains is nothingness
And emptiness.

III.
A woman,
Her weeping reaches your ears,
You must listen carefully,
Listen to her words,
Listen to her tears,
See the sound,
You strain your ears.
And then you hear something inexplicable,
Buried underneath the muted murmurs of the forest,
The notes travel down through your body,
Spreading a stinging sadness that you cannot see nor hear
But feel,
The feeling of the woman’s strange anguish,
The feeling of bitter life,
The hopelessness and mechanics of grief writing themselves
Into the palm of your hand,
Scratching their blunt tips into your soft flesh,
Thawing your veins,
As if it were spring and the sun was bright and burning
Yellow.
Strangely, there is water on your cheeks,
You vaguely think that it must be raining
Blue.
Her feet leave bright red marks against the white snow,
As if the frozen water itself was bleeding
Red.

IV.
The shadows elope,
As a single branch extends its
Wily hand,
Reaching into your body,
Brushing off the layers of dust swirling among the blood
In the demagogue of your heart,
As the darkness perches on the eaves,
Seeping through the cracks
You could almost hear the screams
Black.

V.
Strokes of paint on the skyline,
Racing towards you,
To outrun those shredded souls,
Search into the deep crevices of your mind,
Most memories are gone,
Only wisps remain in those hidden alleys
Buried under the brutal paperwork of words,
Words that you have heard,
Words that you have seen,
Words that you have touched and pocketed as your own,
Ensconced snugly between static thoughts,
A door looms,
Trembling hands carving
An entrance,
Or an exit
Flesh weeps painfully,
Ancient wheels begin to turn,
Past scarlet sumacs and silver maples,
Into the tensed blanket of gray,
It passes,
As it always does,
Without you,
You still don’t know,
The depths of the sky
Or the ocean.