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terminus turnstile
Drenched in morning rain,
like a glacier exhaling into the sea,
I sit—still, marrow-shaken—
held under the weight of a verdict.
I seek the scoffer’s sympathy.
My litanies ripple through warped chimes,
notes splintering into vacant air,
carrying pleas no one will answer.
The city hums, indifferent—
its neon warmth an empty comfort.
No restaurant on High Street serves solace,
. . . . only silence.
Then—sanity finds me.
A hand, warm and certain, encloses mine,
while her other steadies her child,
an anchor against the tide.
I carve obsidian ghosts into thought
as a falcon’s cry rips the sky,
razor-sharp as shattered glass—
piercing deep enough to wake me whole.
