November

The subtle package,
That time cannot trace,
Poison playing poison's race.
But sadness spreads at it's own pace.

The standing, when the seats are taken.
Waiting for the train,
That they have forsaken.
Facing the wall, as they face the crowd.
The sound of impatient silence,
The waiting seems too loud.

The would-have-been tiled walls,
A darkening creme, the empty frames,
Where colour would have teemed.
The bare and brash emptiness
Of the uninviting floors,
The non-existent doors,
Only a lack, that's all there is.

And I want to sit, down,
But I've already explained,
I don't want to feel that harshness,
Not again. And to look around,
To see that contrast, the blankness
And then them.

They lean against it,
They bask in it's neglect,
Pressed up against it's omission,
The peeling paint reflects them,
A less than perfected rendition.
But my passive eyes reject them,
The evanescence of my condition.

The tracks, that's where I keep my stare.
They only go so far, either way,
And I stand in the middle, neither here nor there,
Not knowing from where the train will come.
At both ends a tunnel, at both ends unknown,
Their direction leads to a close. As it approaches,
The beat of a drum, my thought postponed,
The undiscovered attacks,
And I stand alone.