A Messy Life...

this house where we live
is just a train station and we are the trains always leaving to places
leaving smoke and
splinters of our
steel wheels

then when the real time comes for change
we only become passengers moving and moving and waving hands
the train station becomes a mark
that we soon forget in the books
on broken ears
and folded pages but we do not remember any page
not even the idea
of the character that we claim to have loved that much

things are messy really
but who cares? we look forward to the flashes of hills and towns
everything fades
like overused denims.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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