The scent of diesel. Lungs a cage, fighting breath for joy. Monsters purring line the tar, Like trains to towns unknown. Returning grins forced a mask, Weaved by hearts who mourn. Further and further that carriage drove, Till its roar was but a drone. Typhoons; arms and legs whirl around, As busy as death at the weeks birth, Yet seconds feel like days, And days mean nothing. Organs churning, filing fragments, Shreds of thoughts tongues do not touch, For ears that hear will feed It. I tread on; Spitting into the wind, pressing on when the heat was more than one could hone. I long to hear those fiends again, Their hearts will bring me home, Waiting for the day, When they fail to let alone. -Isaac Olajos Did this inspire you? Follow, like, and share my blog (below) for more!