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July 14, 2010
Life is the blur
of a slick grey train
speeding towards
and empty destination.
It does not stop
for the passive wraiths
who wait to board
in stations built
for spectators.

Desperate passengers
cling to hands
and poles
and seats
and pray the thrashing walls
will not collapse
before they reach
that endless end.

A few climb
with frantic claws
through open windows
and are thrown,
caught in slip-stream turmoil,
to blank and barren
fields.

They lay upon their backs
with eyes upturned
to a never sinking sun
that burns them blind,
and grass grows
into their skulls
so that their minds
--soil clogged--
 are full of roots.
Vines will bind
their hands,
their wrists.
"This," they sigh,
"is enlightenment."