TERMINUS

Finally the moment has come and we must stand,
And all the words have gone, along with all the plans.
And though the hands are surely moving on the clock,
For us, this moment, time itself has stopped.

Our early morning eyes still feel a little sore.
And bodies aching, sweetly, from the night before.
I can feel the cold platform through my shoes.
There must be something to be said, but what's the use.

The wind picks up some paper, and blows it passed our feet.
We watch it, grateful, that our eyes don't have to meet.
A screaming whistle rips the air.
And takes away the last seconds we have shared.

We've still photographs; the train begins its run.
And all the words I should've said, suddenly have come.
Someone touches me and asks me for a light,
And wonders if I'm feeling quite all right,
And I say, "Yes".

On another platform, there's a train.
The same old scene is to be shot again.
The wind picks up some paper, and with it I shall ride,
Out through the door marked, "Exit", into the world outside.