Loosened by the draw of day
the sunlight passes,
dust paths flicker,
the hurdy-gurdy lumbering feels
of the rattle-worn-infested tram.
The noise of life enshrouds
the hiss, the fizz,
metallic rumbles:
the passing glory-questioning
and the silence of the cyclists.
The occasional move to rupture-
an all-intrusive noise surrenders,
for with the daily wear and tear
the idea lingers, the truth asunder.
Upon the steel; in driven poise
emerging, purging with each noise.
The pen clicks on,
the tram collides,
with the future as is present time.
The destination never reached
till when it is and darkness scours
the corners of the mortal weave
the soul is routed, then sent forth.
Aligned, laid flat, that final pose,
not matters then, the weed nor rose.
When stone shall mount and commemorate
and dirt and dust and weeds take flight.