Commute

Poem By Helen Wilson

Wake.
Depart.
Car doors slam.
Children pile out.
Train doors shut, no seats,
Grim faces, eyes downcast.

Work looms
Awareness
Raises of sound
Ricocheting off
Walls of anxiety.
From whence does the sound come?

Sit with it.
Carry on until
Self engineers
Adjust the acoustics.
What is real and what is not?
What feeds the soul, what causes rot?

Do not succumb
Before arrival.
What feeds the soul is its
Own survival; journeying
Through the space-time continuum
Habit and will are the padding required.

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I used to think it lurked without
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Despair? Absent.