steve a. manolis poet

Black Soul

 

 

I sense an old soul enter the train car

as I sit to contemplate this Sunday song,

he carries raggity words, shuffles in softly

clutching his only world, in his black way.

 

The train clacks away tearing through

an early morning mist, mothers pulling at children

headsets pounding senseless rhythm, lost words

fall into the minds of a care-nothing attitude.

 

Old soul increases his grip on the train strap

swaying slowly, the train gains speed

and heads into the dark womb-ed tunnel

overhead lights flicker, the air pushes against me.

 

I find it difficult to catch a breath

yet old soul stares ahead, as if awaiting destiny

to reach out and lift him away from the physical

and into the realm of greater things.

 

The train explodes into sun light

my eyes tearing from the strain of foggy vision,

finally I see the bible lying on the metal floor

pages flapping freely, yet there is no wind at all.