Empty Stations

Orbs of light drifted in the window
Along with coffee spells and smoke
The cold comes down with the dark
Quietly rippling the engine's roar
And sleep struggles to tranquilize
The hysteric sea resurging inside

In this transitory life I have waited
To be filled like an empty station
Marauded by forlorn passengers
Looking for right doors, numbers,
And tickets and vacancies;
I watched them mordantly
Remembering how hopeless
It is to search and stay,
Our feet are made for departing
Our arms for their arrival
And we can only waltz
To an inconsistent forever

In the plenitude of doors
And sleeping stations
Knocks would always arrive
Like a meaningless song
And some would come in,
Some would come out,
Tired, uninspired; searching
Hopeful, open; found

In this groaning repose,
Veiled by tobacco scent and
Shielded by a sooty window,
I held my ticket waiting to be torn
As I futilely wait for my own peace
When sleep heralds the night
And shifting unconscious states
Where you remained alive.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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