The Brakes

The Brakes

Near seven decades of run on, sentenced to a worn and hazy neatly

there you go, so you’ve slowed, you slowly, give up to the end

of indecision always anyway, come to a creeping standstill,

your appointed hour quavers at stasis, the surrendering admit

yourself to the final mystery of what you wanted and where

you would find it, spilled sleepy eyed, rolling on like molten lead,

how a goal might never be, you freezing up, solely in the icing pleasure

of your company, this black and white snapshot, so stark grand dream,

all along the streets subsumed in shadow, shrouded in a light post’s

flickering beam, a spotted spider, lost legged, you pausing for a ticket

time stamp, time to stop skittering the web, veins pulse

your station, stop blood on the tracks just up ahead.

I think right now you must move, awake, you must awake,

return your vision, before the sure dark’s groan too little too late.