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Young man stands

Shoulder propped against the pillar

Its concrete cold, harsh, pock-marked

Echoes his mood

Like the burned tar smoke

That spirals like a dragon

From a hand which hangs,

A pendulum weight within the sleeve,

Detached at his side.

The girl waits

Hair scented with expectation

The flower-musk brushed skin

Alight and aglow –

She knows that he will come

And lay his cloak across her fears –

Painted hues of love

Which grow like the wisteria

Around her heart.

A man forgotten by time

The pages of his days

Scattered on the dust

Like flakes of decaying skin

No testament to the things that passed his eyes

And cut their mark into his flesh

Knows that days are numbered

But he no longer counts

As he waits for welcomed arms.

A restaurant doorway

Arms flung wide like a distant aunt

Two lovers embrace

Clinging to the space that grew between them

Remembering it like childhood

Before they squeeze its life away

A moment that they trust

Will hold them in the perfection that they feel

Their private slice of heaven.

And the trains they come

And the trains still leave.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018