Sad limber coffers,
Emptied out by years and disuse,
With dust declining on the walls.
She scavenges for her innards,
Even while she sees them spilt,
In pieces and shredded without a hope,
Of ever refitting the lonesome shards,
To these sorry furbishments.
Half my days may be spent in wonder,
And the other half on god knows what,
I lie alone while I’m standing up,
While I’m sitting all alone in the crowded train car,
And thinking off into space,
Looking straight down the barrel of oblivion,
Hunting for an answer in the absence of experience,
Reliant on the past when it just won’t come,
It just won’t come.