A heavy train of thought,
overcrowded, a smell of mould
trailing behind my shoulder.
When it stops, it always does
in vast lonesome deserts,
where the wind hisses only as a reminder of time –
carrying frustrated, intoxicated screams
of the loud passenger crowd from the past
down a horizon of absolute nothingness.
I stand tied in chains of words
that twirl around my body;
they root me inside this train,
inside steamed desire and coal-burning fear.
I cannot find the chords
to sing for her. I want to worship her
with chimes. Alas, she sleeps soundly now
in one of the carriages, the only passenger left –
Hope rests in the calm, while I wait
for the train to fill with turbulent impossibilities
to be burnt along this journey ever-circling
around my absolutely inanimate fate.
I wait for the noise to evaporate
in the distance, for fresh sobriety
to board the train, to start the engines
before she awakes. Yes, she will swirl
the compass to another dry desert,
in my words’ own integrity
she will trap me again. Before too long…
Hope – delusional, lucid and luminous
in a cold desert night. Only the wind
still hissing with human possessions.
A naked poet, stripped of the right to search for it,
I remain her slave, in absolute hope and faith.