Commuter Train Blues
The roots are shallow and my skills are weak
The tunes look pallid and walk in their sleep
Poems are a language I stumble to speak
At the foot of the barrel, lying deep in the well
Love I once mastered, now a sweet gift from hell
Locked tight by kindness in a torturous cell
Nature's work done, there is now only pain
Where pleasure would come, the knowledge of shame
In desiring a soul that flies freely again
Don't wish to buy things they're so desperate to sell
Don't need to live anywhere they wish me to dwell
Nor care to think thoughts that are not mine to tell
I won't gamble on life with their bright red chips
At tilted green tables in a game that is fixed
I am running with luck on strong metal hips
With a wife and a child and a spirit that longs
For places I knew, alleys where I was wronged
That turned my heart wild in its hunger and songs
Some dreams become real in time - or they will -
Others fade slowly like mist on the hill
And some of those dreams I am longing for still.
poem by Frank Bana
Added by Poetry Lover
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