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Next, Next, Stop
Standing on a rusted platform,
I look towards the looming, tarnished steel clock,
Ticking away my final moments of existence.
Oceanic eyes swell with liquid salinity
As a hollowing whistle booms in the close distance.
The scent of petrol mingles with midnight paranoia.
Placing a shaking hand upon my vibrating chest,
I can detect the trembling of a trepidatious heart,
Whilst the monstrous whistle is getting louder now—
Signaling the next, next stop: ruination.
Pulling up, two ghastly doors creak open,
Heralding me towards finality.
Stepping inside, all that surrounds is a blazing fog,
Like some surrealistic, dreamy haze
Engulfing my every gasping breath.
Choking on the ashes of all the sins
I have branded onto loved ones’ flesh,
I slam to the floor as the tempo of the train accelerates,
Jolting over a swinging bridge,
Taking my corrupted spirit
Over a modern-day River Styx.
Copyright ©
Sara Jama
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