deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sitting at the Station
Sitting at the station
Counting the benches—
The moon is filling now.
Hacking in damnation,
Digging my trenches—
The last light showed me how.
They are making room
—A legion’s traces—
In the rancor of the perfume
That obscures our faces
Back from the heinous lost wars—
The moon is friendly to our scars.
Waiting for the train’s smoke
From the willows that weep
Over rivers deep below—
Hearing in my breast choke
Something I will not rock to sleep:
The damages I cannot show.
Purity strikes the ground
But is hindered by the chains
Of dungeons that surround
The invisible stains
The leash on fingers that crave
To dig their own grave.
Wherever there’s flames
We are not free
Carving our names
On stones gently
The moon is emptying light
Where the whispers ignite—
Whispers vacant and dry
Longing for a freer sky.
Counting the benches—
The moon is filling now.
Hacking in damnation,
Digging my trenches—
The last light showed me how.
They are making room
—A legion’s traces—
In the rancor of the perfume
That obscures our faces
Back from the heinous lost wars—
The moon is friendly to our scars.
Waiting for the train’s smoke
From the willows that weep
Over rivers deep below—
Hearing in my breast choke
Something I will not rock to sleep:
The damages I cannot show.
Purity strikes the ground
But is hindered by the chains
Of dungeons that surround
The invisible stains
The leash on fingers that crave
To dig their own grave.
Wherever there’s flames
We are not free
Carving our names
On stones gently
The moon is emptying light
Where the whispers ignite—
Whispers vacant and dry
Longing for a freer sky.
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