Shreds: “At The Border”

The grayish giant rocks me with might,
Completely ignoring my morning fare,
‘Midst vacant chairs, stark and bare,
As if aware of the monster’s plight.

An impassive glance, cold and terse,
From the officials, swift and stern,
As I struggle to show credentials earn,
Yet receive no heed, nor converse.

Local tongues in countless hues
Fade with the changing of the train,
And further on, another serpent reigns.
I ponder days. All the same news.

Those of the servants, whatever the scribe,
They’ve treasured the broth of mundane,
Of ennui and woes, in visions lain,
Wiped away in the hold’s bribe.

The whistle comes past the pane,
Ripped by the yellowish drape
That since the morn did narrate
Of a festival day’s parades.

It sways and staggers, bends low,
And twists upon its metal core,
Borders of maps, yet I dance once more
As if ‘pon the highest peak, aglow.

The hours drag and seem to stall
As I sit in my reflective space,
Yet, swiftly, perhaps with bitter taste,
Or perhaps I am again at a crawl.

We seem to be ‘n lands I hold dear,
Yet scattered flaws appear,
Burnt rocks eroded by time near,
They force me not to tarry here.

As if in scant, fleeting chance,
To truly make a gesture bold,
I’d find a way to quickly fold
And let my heart in here enhance.

Melancholic and futile, then, I reset
My sitting, somewhat astray,
‘Twixt the electric breeze and the dismay
And my attire, dark as the nights’ threats.

Some ascend, some have departed,
Few stops remain ‘til we arrive,
But of this place I shall not write
For they’ll soon have me occupied.

As hero, as idol, with gravity, I descend,
Serious, with my baggage in tow,
Both metaphorical and unlucky woe,
With which I live, and struggle to mend.