Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Asynchronous Clock

Steam pulses through an iron train.
Hisses and sighs set a refrain.
A lady covers her face in scorn.
Ex-miners panhandle to cover lost bets.
Bandannas haven't been enough to filter the air lately.
Pollution wounds dainty lungs like her's.
Coal coasts like pollen and deposits there.
Oil drips from the hydraulics as blood from a cut.
The conductor screams; he has lost his wits.
He saw a fright but won't say what.
Invisible horrors come from the abyss, jutting.
Dr.Jones prescribes the conductor rest with a wet washcloth.
Ladies-in-waiting titter in their posh clothes.
Who'd expect to see such a spectacle?
Two ticket-counters carry the mumbling man to bed.
It's probably opium what turned his face so red.
Ahead the rails were shelled.
The wheels rebel.
The train derails, spills, wavers, piles.
Survivors tremble immediately after.
Much later gentlemen pale and the dainty ladies-who-wait faint at the remembrance.
Sometimes, a man foresees his future.

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