Poetry

When the sun sets on the third day

If we could trace a thought from brain to mouth,

I wonder what form it would take?

Are the thoughts that get stuck in your throat

giant corks,

bottling your voice

until so much pressure builds up

it pops off and

everything comes gushing out at once?

What if they’re shaped like rare jewels

and are followed by a thief who disconnects the wires so your voice isn’t just held back,

but lost altogether?

Do you build up more walls,

or travel up the staircase

to reconnect the circuit

as many times as it takes?

Poetry

Train of thought

The skies are dark, the chugging

rising from a growl into a beating drum

as the tracks curve up to the sky.

The clouds shift into giant birds, spreading their wings

to chase away the smog and

drift beside the train as it gathers speed

heading to its conclusion

that has yet to be built.