Thoughts on trains with no driver or rails
Whizzing about through the stale air
Spectrum of colors, both dull and glee
A lone passenger sits on the chair
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In a single day, the showing of teeth is never avoided
Neither the laughter erupted through the throat
But no one knows what goes through the mind
As one wears their inner coat
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Deep like a hole, one would find
More part of her in words that rhyme
Or in selections that proved meaningless to others
The unnoticed details blinded in time
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Endless things popping up in intervals
Long hard stares are what it would seem
The presence is there but the eyes distant
Secretly drowning in the silent scream
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As you can see, the story goes untold
The world spins regardless of the sickly wear
All the things that make up the whole
Would be gone when you thought she was there
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In this passage, you would know
The one you see is what was shown
Hearts may break or skins may age
But what you reap is what you'd sow
YOU ARE READING
A Writer's Collection
Short StorySTOP! Good. Now I've got your attention. Open the door. No, not your door. But this door. Not a physical door either. This door is called Story Door. Open it. There is no turning back. Welcome. Didn't say I didn't warn you. -M
