Cutting though dark
like white chalk
on tar,
the train engine roars
like a leopard
behind black bars.
Set your head to bed,
counting all those stars
that journey through
your window
a hundred million years;
A hundred million more.

May the winds keep you warm
and your dust always win.
The certainty of time
that justice terrorized.
Counting all those stars,
you won’t go very far.
A hundred million years?
A hundred million more.

I was once a child
and now I’m just a man;
Two hundred pounds of dust;
To the victor goes the wind;
Like that train on the tracks
cutting through the dark.
While tall trees stand still,
the owl hunts the rat.

And I lay very flat
in my bed like that.
A hundred million years?
A hundred million more.

narrative poem written on 02-07-2012 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem


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