Thoughts travel on a circular train,
moving through the tunnels of the caves,
headed towards Siberia then around again,
back to the start under the bright rising sun.
The passengers a murmur of voices
asking each other questions
When is arrival time?
Their faces a beauty,
their faces don’t see
out the window of the train-
for fog it envelops the scene-
of that swift train passing along
it’s tracks hug the cliffs where the sea crashes hard.
the invisible pull frozen in the iceberg
moving towards the sea-
the ice is aglow in the sunshine,
moving with the under toe-
that inner tidal flow
His legs upon a chair,
speaking of religion,
drinking a martini-
an icy heart that doesn’t pump through
the church bell vibrations.
Peering out the window into fog,
he calls his young niece to sit beside him
and asks her to tell him of her dreams and play.
She wears the smile of the sun,
she remembers the feelings that the book in his lap tries to detain,
love and freedom in the moment.
Her face smiles brightly
not yet given a name.
The fog it will lift, and again day will rise,
again it will flow in with the tide.
For we are but passengers riding a circular train.
So do not get too attached to your own name.
Let it flow through you,
lifting your pain,
for we are but passengers riding a circular train.