faded
Charred, flattened-over
The familiar passages bend and shift
Yellow tiles made perverse with soot
“Arriving at BAY. Bay Station.”
Is this the closest we get to divinity?
Each person propelled with forces unknown,
Through despairing darkness,
To destinations yet unseen?
How can I, a flawed person,
Come to understand?
I cannot —
“Arriving at SAINT GEORGE. Saint George station.”
I must collect myself. This was a simple exercise.
This pedestrian thrill!
How wondrous an usher,
these gleaming silver engines,
Sliding across the city,
And after each tunnel,
This explosion of colour!
Despair is but the blackened tunnel,
The whirring walls,
The flash of light, gone as it appeared.
Despair is the forgetfulness,
The lull, the closing-in
The clench of muscle and jaw which
Propels the body inward,
and turns all vision dark!
But ‘midst all the void, and in the clunch
Feel the rush of air,
And see the colour of day!
It is your own engine which brought you here,
The tracks you’ve laid,
The wheels you’ve forged in iron,
Depart, find yourself a sun-light field,
and lie about in glee