Here we are, at the junction where real
splits into artificial. Trains don't often come here
anymore; these tear-rusted rails are like Black Death
to them, but if we be careful, we can step over, or tiptoe
through their decaying molars. Be silent;
let us communicate in muffled poetry,
because sound can be deceptive here, loosening ringlets
of fog in its wake. That's the price of wandering,
I suppose.
Look at the sky—
dark. It reminds me of the smoke
that used to billow through here, when the days
would pass like sunlight through fog,
decaying into timelessness; flies flirted
and burnt up, and I would link little trinkets
on a chain and sacrifice them to the caboose.
It's quieter now.
When will this fog clear up?
It makes me feel broken, strangled,
lost. I want to grope, but your caressing antennae
hold me back. They feel like the zenith of my depression
and I like that. It makes me feel lustful
and nostalgic, like something was missing.
But that's only the trains.
People still come here, sometimes—
stragglers, mostly, wandering in the plane between us
and real. If you listen, you can hear them;
it's like the sound of dying engines, sputtering
away into void; now and then, one can hear
the sound of heartbeating FiveFingers,
because the ground is too charcoaled
for barefoot. Try to ignore them—they'll find their way home,
eventually.
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