The 5th Movement

The city groans, the countryside runs — and I am somewhere in between.

On an overcast afternoon,
cello strings resonate in my ears.

The train chugs
and lurches,
violently,
towards London.

I am moving in fifths.

I imagine all the life behind these deep, oval sounds.
horsehair rubbing sheep gut strings,
stained Brazil wood
held by the artist,
his bow slicing the air
with consummate ease.

The metallic lines are carrying me away from her,
while the black mare
runs wild through the countryside.

Increasing vibrations shake rapidly,
as the machine inside feels waves of hope,
only to find they disintegrate
with each alternating note.

These emotions undulate,
and have no bounds.
They fly away like starlings
swarming around sunset piers.

People die
in carriages next to me.
Flowers bloom.
Somewhere, black tar
is injected into bone.

The cancerous tumour
of this city’s underground
explodes into life,
as skyscrapers melt,
menacingly,
behind the orange backdrop of a February night.

The world burns
at a quickening pace,
and I am helpless here.

It is safer
to float, silently,
with the tide.

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