Into The Starry Night

To become a stranger in your own town, or to be a stranger on new land?
What about those floating in between?

The oddity of the trains I ride,
shaped by the filth of dusk,
the spirit of doves turned off —
creatures of the underground,
dragged along.

The streets I walk,
a perfume turned stale.
Prosaic,
dull. Mainstream, boring kind.

I feel the pain,
ripping off bubble-gum,
and the concern,
buying more space
in our digital cloud —
our new common ground.

Too plugged in,
too close by.
At arm’s reach,
yet galaxies apart.

I’m as guilty as
those in charge,
swallowing their crap.
Still, with power to decide:
become one with the background sound,
or zone out into a reality that won't bite.

I locked eyes with the scenery outside:
a middle-aged man
on a construction site.
His shoulders, about to collapse
rust piercing into his spine.
Waitin’ to clock out?
I wonder —

what might his world be like?

So close,
yet worlds apart.

I glanced back inside.
The train’s seat decorated by The Starry Night.
— Van Gogh, you son of a gun,
it reminded me of her scarf.

Cheap polyester
caressing my jaw
She would wrap me in,
hold me tight.

Two sailors living unbound.
— Van Gogh, you’re making me cry.
One hides between skyscrapers,
the other’s chasing the golden light.

We became like day and night —
maybe we’ve always been like that.

But on nights full of stars
we would breathe like one:
kind, the authentic type,
just like The Starry Night.

Still close,
yet oceans apart.

Cursed by the delusion
that my words
will close distance
and beat time.

Heaven isn’t a stop
on this train ride.