Saturday, 7 April 2012

NaPoWriMo 7/30 Day 7 poem

Watford Junction

On the train home
with ever-growing distance
from the last bout of hollowness,

he felt his face crease,
sharp paper cut edges under
the burden of emotional origami.

These nights,
sometimes syrup,
sometimes sulphur

never made sense
when stripped down
to raw, clinical data.

The rhythmic, soporific, soundtrack
drew his head to the cool glass,
its ice kiss to his forehead

inspring new false promises.
This will be his last time.
It is time to move on.

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