I am sitting,

still sitting,

on cold iron painted black,

the railing on the wall

an unnecessary ornament.

Lights die out

Not a sound is made

an effort in vain.

The street  a branch of the highway

veins, arteries of an ever waking machine

The leaves whisper

I lean closer

petrol roars don’t let me hear.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s