Last Call For The Ten Twenty Five Poem by Andy Brookes

the line between the lines, subtext, truth or plot
reality has a short fuse, time a river in which we all drown.

watching the pilot steering us round the rocks
his black cowl reminds me of death.

we plunge in pot holes, water filled and cold.
stumbling around in the fog we call life,
stubbing our toes, catching our breath, drowning.

corners are sharp twisting away into the unknown futures
can you hear the train whistle?
the ten twenty five is leaving but we can wait
there'll be another one, maybe you'll be on that one.

when did we drift?
when did you disappear round the corner?
when did these sharp tears appear?
when, when, when, it echos in blowing leaves, rustling grasses.
I can't find you but then you have not been here,
how could you be? I shall ask the pilot next time,
you know the one who reminds me of death, if he has seen you, .