The train is going slower
due to another train in front of us.
At 3 pm, it is already getting darker.
In the window I see myself, but older now.
So much to think about
of how lucky, glad I feel
and why it is that I am happy;
a word no poet ever seems to use.
Counting my blessings,
not leaving you out by the way,
I watch the grey turn into black.
Still so glad I live, a feeling
too mundane for poetry?
I’ve known times that were not really mine,
when I couldn’t live my own life.
All it took to change, was stepping out
of stupid situations, getting no where.
The train is speeding up
and my thoughts are slowing down
into the deeper meaning