The Platform

Screeching, shrill nostalgia, sounds its arrival.

The cogs of the groaning world begin to slow.

Chattering, spattering sparks dive off the rails

Into the rotten, crumbled debris below.

I tumble like a child in a dusty wind.

Overcoats and handbags blindingly ashen.

Sunbeams through skylights gleam dryly off worn steel,

Dented and rusted but sparkling with passion.

Too many people in all this disarray,

But smells like muggy cigarettes are warm,

And seats too close for comfort in near darkness,

Belay the anger of the oncoming storm.

It pulls away with lurching, retching complaint,

The cold of the old air is barely chilling.

Each tiny gear turning jerks my memories.

When the calm, cotton tears start softly spilling.

My heart lifts its load that it’s carried for years,

The light in the darkness is flickering grey

My stomach starts squirming when I realise;

The platform is suddenly far, far away.

First of many – I’m doing a poem a day for NaPoMo (National Poetry Month) so expect more soon!

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About pasameerday

I haven't got a lot of time to keep you interested, so I'll be quick. I'm a writer from the UK, primarily of fantasy and sci-fi short stories, and occasionally of strange, nonsensical poetry. I like cats, the Sims, and pizza, and I go to sleep to the sound of a keyboard. I've been writing for my entire life; to be honest, I don't think I could ever bring myself to stop. I have a feeling I'm losing you, so I'll bring this to an end before you slowly start to back up, hoping I'll stop talking long enough for you to make a quick getaway. Wait... Where are you going? Hey! Wait! ... Stop!!
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