Commute - Poem by Helen Wilson
Car doors slam.
Children pile out.
Train doors shut, no seats,
Grim faces, eyes downcast.
Raises of sound
Walls of anxiety.
From whence does the sound come?
Sit with it.
Carry on until
Adjust the acoustics.
What is real and what is not?
What feeds the soul, what causes rot?
Do not succumb
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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