the railways

there's a city which sprawls in contempt
underneath our feet, even when we sleep,
it goes on and on rambling about the passing of time,
about the turmoil,
about long lost love and how the railways
are not what they used to be, even so, they are no longer
selling tickets in paper stubs or newspapers that you can fold
and tuck under your arm as the train
comes and goes.
so then you look at how the trees hurl and the wasps nest on the tin roof;
there's nothing there except for the invisible,
nature can never retain that sense of authenticity
we often look for in someone we love.

it's just what it is, you tell yourself,

as people jump turnstiles and run down the stairs to meet the new train,
the next train, that buzzes and zooms, that sings a polyphonic song.
unease runs through the velvet cushions that line the seats

and the train continues to ramble on into the darkness,

never contemplating death,

but never stopping to look at it.

you emerge into the light, no sunglasses,

what could you do with them? your hand as a hat,

your hands, your swollen knuckles,

they extend less and less with time. the city looks back at you

as you walk down, the little white squared tiles

that line the cathedral entrance, you break down

into tears thinking how the've torn it all down:

all the sense of belonging, all the music, all the magic.

there's a city which sprawls in contempt. there's a city

even when the wind tries to blow it all away.

no one can convince you of that, you'd have to see it to believe it,

you wouldn't dare to dream it

it's the city that holds the secret of what makes us,

what an individual is not, 

and what a person should be.