In Pale
Half Stoned,
Hungover Morning,
I watch the train
Go by.
Covered in generations of graffiti,
It rolls on,
Monstrous.
Generations of artists,
Punk rock kids in cut off denim screaming justified anger
At an Unjust World,
Acid tripping hipsters,
writing the secrets of the universe
as they uncover them.
Layer upon layer of dream and inspiration and art,
Drifting by us on cold, rusted train tracks.
Soon the pictures and words will be covered with rust,
And the artist,
Six feet of mud.
And no one will remember the once so important message,
represented through beautiful murals
painted on this modern monolith of industry like a sole dandielion rising through rubble...
I flick the ash off of my native cigarette at the moving train.
I know I won\'t remember.
As hard as I try,
Some dreams are meant to be forgotten