the stations between lavender and redhill

the seat is hard. it’s colour i mean. it refuses to conform to the layers upon it – you get a rough background; unforgiving. funny how it hasn’t faded; aren’t the windows transparent? it’s still hard, unmalleable. wonder how many people have sat on it.

what is the backdrop
to every word laid on my heart,
to every face flashed before,
and every moment i caught,
only to realise that the best things in life,
are free.

i wonder what they think, dancing above a thinking man. they toss and turn, unhindered, yet always hinged. the illusion of freedom comes from knowing how much is too much, how far your chain can go. yet they look less troubled than me. i wish someone would hold me too.

i kept the butterflies on a chain,
but you set them free;
they steal my sleep at night.


and in a gentle rumble the sun broke free from the miles of concrete, and i stared into the light again.

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