Commute

It's morning.
The meat trains move through the traffic on their way to work
The caved-in heads and thousand yard stares of commuters
As they repetitively groundhog day their way
through their unexpectedly disappointing lives.
The thrill of all the edges has been rubbed off by the friction of time's river.
And the accidental polish from millions of hands of tourists.
The embodiment of beliefs eroded by exposure.
People that are tired of walking compelled by simple biology to keep on walking.
Personal rainclouds of being misunderstood following each person
The older the house, the more that it's haunted.
None of us are buoyant in this rain-soaked darkness.
But instead of filling up with water, we are emptying.
Bleeding out with no replenishing.
Ebbing away to transparency.
The clothes existing more than the people.
Scarecrows that the crows don't even notice anymore
Snakes that shed skin only to find that there's suddenly nothing underneath.
Half-lifing away
Until the final transition to the great unknown
is less of a giant leap
and more of a small step.



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