At the Station, by the track, is the corpse of Silence,
papering the earth with pure blood.
Layer, after layer of stories with the same ending-
they died.
But theirs aren't the only suicides committed.
Nobody knows that a dog had woken up to its tail on a Tuesday morning
and smelled for the first time, death.
Two men, in a train, had woken up to their balls
and learned that they will kill themselves as the train of life sped
along time's tracks.
The poet, journeying in a dream bubble, had sowed death in her mind.
She's waiting to reap it.
Death, and the thought of it, is a big leap, indeed.
While life, is only a keep. Our habit of sleeping.
Each moment, when you succumb to life, know that you are killing
yourself; know that you're planting a tail where you should have
plugged emptiness; know that in keeping time, you're losing it.
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