© Feb. 1, 2018. All Rights Reserved.
Despite her tender wounds confined,
Bereft, she has prolonged simpers,
Or so nicotine smiles of youth.
Present in my reveries,
Lingering till nightmares aligned,
She perishes, but there’s whimpers.
Writhing asleep, I make a breeze.
The damnedest goldmines are deep-sixed
With echoes wandering ditches.
While the firmaments part afar,
There’s locomotives, careening
Like a loud shooting star affixed.
Of folklores and beastly stitches,
Girls are egg donors like forced tar.
Boys are probed like adults squealing.
Our canteens leak like water towers
Are to tears, grappling with eyelids.
Alas, imprisoned by deep downfalls,
Dusk oceans under bridges unite.
It’s unreal; I’ve seen the still hours
In books during sounds of katydids
Mingling, walls thumping, and phone calls.
Thus, there’s no evidence of hindsight.
Citizens ridicule such train myths.
Masks with military jackets
Ride aboard; yet, they’re invisible.
There’s no evidence of such aged tracks,
But lamb hearts cut into three-fifths
With archaic messages for wits.
Prophecy’s not a miracle.
The line’s as crowded as flashbacks.
Mixed beliefs from skeptics to not,
Unite to see the historic train.
Citizens laugh, but then they stop.
It’s midnight and the train arrives,
Transparent enough to see a plot.
Crowds run; they’re shot in the migraine.
Divers still are ushered to the top.
Then, the train’s in motion with more lives.
Isaiah Lawrence 