Old Man On The Train
Old Man On The Train It seems to me, this morning that I’m not to enjoy birdsong; nor poppies stretching out of sleep; nor rain waltzing with its technicolor dress. My breath has been wrenched from my lungs. The Old Man across from me hasn’t noticed his ember-veined neighbour. Blood-breached maw, whispering: I am the grey in your eyes; the void in your knees; the slowing of your heart. The curtain draws closer yet – I succumb to a quiet dread and wonder when I’ll meet this cadaverous visitor myself. I invite the darkness in to rest and stay awhile. But I wake in terror ...