railway
thresholds
Folder:
Prior work
Station Clock
The iron hands refuse to hurry.
A whistle threads the air—
not command, but reminder
that every departure
is also a mock-up of return.
Tracks
Parallel lines persuade us
that direction is destiny,
yet the gravel between them
is littered with weeds
that never bought a ticket.
Compartments
Faces blur in the glass,
each reflection a stranger
carrying the same suitcase of silence.
We sit across from ourselves,
pretending the journey is elsewhere.
Terminus
The platform empties,
but the rails keep singing
long after the train has gone.
What remains is not arrival,
but the weight of having moved.
.
