Where the sun nearly smelts the steel,
wheels turn there, with virile brawn
and their squeals are heard echoing
through and between
the building panes
and highway lanes,
there is where Anyone stands
and hears. Listens.
An audience to those
with hearts and minds.
Skin and eyes...
those who are soft and real.
Anyone hears
the rain's small hands clapping
for some happy embrace.
The train's sad wails for a soldier's son
left behind unborn
The planks' hard panting lungs...
they always run until they can't.
Down on Union
is where the songs of the living
are played on instruments of flesh,
and the dirges and ballads
flourish both.
Down on Union
is where Anyone sheds an empty tear
that's stoic and stone,
that happens past some sunlight
then mixes with the rain.
Down on Union,
there is where it goes
and stands...
because it has to. |
Submission Name: Down on Union
