A kind of anti-meditation;
instead of emptying my mind of all those noisy complications,
I encourage, indeed strive for, another wild imagination,
another way to breathe some life into these lines of my creation.

Familiar situation.
I’ve been twice around these railway stations,
looking for the train or track that houses my salvation;
but the platform’s cold,
the seats are old,
and I’m running out of patience.

There’s little magic in this leisure,
where once it offered worlds of pleasure.
Even the tragic words held beauty,
where now, contrived, they smell of duty.


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