sitting
the seconds gather
in a pile on the rug,
even my breath
does not disturb them
suddenly I am
on the same old train,
moving through the cars,
tripping over memories
fears, anxieties, words
left unsaid, all these
boxcars on the rails
of runaway mind
then, quite quickly,
back to the breath,
air in through my nostrils,
air out above my lip
the seconds gather
slowly into years,
still sitting, still
catching the train
[not a fan of this poem, but for some reason the metaphor wanted to work itself out, cliche though it is]
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