Yellow Lines
A Poem
Stand behind the yellow line,
the next train does not stop
at platform four.
Close your eyes to miss the blurs
of blue, the gold of lights;
what good is it to look?
Place cold hands upon your ears,
ignore the breath of wheels,
the phosphorus sparks, both good and bad.
Walk away to never feel
the metal rumble, cough and sputter;
life is always close to death.
Unfasten eyes, uncover ears,
and stand a little closer to the saffron streak of
'back, stand back, stand back'.
Tell me; was it ever there?
Were you?
Were you?