Departure.

The train should have left already.

There's a woman across the aisle
breathing deeply between expletives -
a panic attack which she seeks to defeat
with a veritable verbal assault.
She files a broken nail as if she
holds her hands responsible for the delay.
"I cannot fucking believe it!
This train should have left already."

There's another man scrawling thoughts
into a notebook that only he can see.
After each phrase he raises his hand
and scratches between his nose and upper-lip.
This, combined with covert coffee sips,
satisfies his thirst for inspiration.
A quick peek over his shoulder
and his thoughts are all laid bare.
"What an assault upon the decent!
This train should have left already!"

A suited man, complete with greying stubble
and thick-framed glasses, seems entirely more composed.
The leisurely descent of each newspaper page
suggests an air of calm acceptance:
an embrace of his South Eastern fate.
The only tell I can spot,
is the rapid tapping
upon the face of his watch.
I'm not sure if he sees It as the
Sovereign of Time, or if he's tapping
out some code to Morse -
"Save. Our. Souls.
This train should have left already."

And through the window stands a woman
whose high-vis jacket draws all kind of questions.
She points to different platforms,
and confirms for one startled commuter -
"Yes, this is the right train.
Yes, I know, it should have left already."

Kings.

There stands only an easel;
a canvas; and a vase'd bouquet.
The sun had set some time ago,
but The Artist painted day.

He'd transcribed splintered wood
into a lavish carpet - "Fit For Kings".
The simple, cobwebbed windows gone -
covered by "The Finer Things".
Flowing curtains shielded rot;
and mahogany dotted the wings.
The tired floral yellows, and quiet blues,
were replaced by entwined rosen rings.
(There sits a fattened fly upon a petal,
but He ignored the flower to which it clings).
To the loaded paint brush - the power,
and to the Artist - The Kings.

Ascension.

I'll wade through the morning like
the ankle-high mire that it is.
I'll crawl beyond the craters
of the barb'd afternoon,
into the rolling hills of eventide...
where the whipping Sun dies too soon.
I won't glide upon the morning's gaze
nor relish in its attention.
I'll ignore the sweet lull of noon
and fall to those rolling hills,
where I might delight in convention.
The thick web of night will fall,
and amongst it's netting catch
a man who stood tall,
but forever defied ascension.

Burrow.

There's a small spot in the forest
where the thicket reigns as King.
A canopy of dying leaves ensures
no chance of sunshine seeping in.
Where the worms and beetles
burrow forever down to join their kin;
blissfully ignorant automatons,
free of will and all our sin.

All around, faint glows lie.
It draws those burrowing beasts
to trample, touch and pry.
No sooner did that faint glow emerge
than it had to say goodbye.
Amongst the forest thicket King,
the Fireflies go to die.

Painting.

Lights suspended from the ceiling come to life
and drape the creaking wooden floor
in a dull approximation of daylight.
The footsteps of tourists and
the ruffling of their brochures
do not quite drown out the
emphatic and fallacious
"ahhs" and "hmms",
as they pass painting and sculpture
with equal disinterest.

Some way down the line
a small congregation forms
that is silenced by adoration.
A golden, twirling frame keeps captive
the most gorgeous of women
upon the most fantastic landscape...
though she will never see such beauty.
Her eyes are painted in place upon the page,
to forever gaze beyond the frame.

Beasts.

Amidst the bustle of a Sunday car boot sale,
stands a man supported by an ageing cane.
The table before him is adorned with
all manner of statues and idols:
goblins and demons that mostly look the same.
The car in which he'd arrived had
tinted windows to keep curiosity outside -
to a world in which he'd often thought
all manner of wicked beasts reside.
It wasn't until he found his wife
draped over another man,
that he then realised:
the greatest evil lies inside.

Silence.

The moment transcends silence and slips into serenity.
A fisherman casts his line into the water
beating against the rocks.
The clouds above shed the water that binds them
and the gentle breeze gathers its forces
into a gust that makes theatre of golden locks.
Walking in our direction, a group of teenagers
wearing hoodies and their attitudes
stop to watch a bird fly overhead.
The fisherman checks that his watch
still ticks and tocks,
but hears distant teenage profanities instead.
I can barely feel the rain and cold
whilst your lips are between my own.
The world becomes but a distant distraction
and our surroundings cease to be.
The moment transcends silence
and slips into serenity.