Organic waste

many hours of staring at horizons on paper
and behind you the world takes place
in it’s own pace, you don’t see it,
people die, others get born,
such a jungle at the railroad station
where no one knows anyone

you stand still in the big hall
trying to know all
thinking of it as one big organ
breathing and moving
in the many hours of staring
at the mustard of walls

trains spider themselves out of the centre
you have nothing to write about
and the paper sheets blow over the tracks
empty and filled with your tears
no one hears the last pigeon
dropping dead in the crowd

 

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