thresholds

 Station Clock
The iron hands refuse to hurry.
A whistle threads the air-
not command, but reminder
that every departure
is also a mock-up of return.

 

 Tracks
Parallel lines persuade us
that direction is destiny,
yet the gravel between them
is littered with weeds
that never bought a ticket.

 

 Compartments
Faces blur in the glass,
each reflection a stranger
carrying the same suitcase of silence.
We sit across from ourselves,
pretending the journey is elsewhere.  

 

 Terminus
The platform empties,
but the rails keep singing
long after the train has gone.
What remains is not arrival,
but the weight of having moved.

.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

It is the journey that is all important Freds. We are all on a journey. Your poem is a great metaphor for life and the obstacles thrown in our path along the way. There are many departures, not everyone arrives at their destination. I enjoyed your stanzas and the imagery of the station and the parallel lines. Have a great weekend.

Chris

[redd Brick Keshner]

Those mesmerizing parallel lines and those distinct railway sounds echoing into the distance! You got it, Chris! Thank you🕊️🙏🏻
Freds