Slowly chugging to a familiar stop
The brakes shriek, as I sullenly stare, at the stagnant clock
A station I know, I know all too well
Its insipid sights, its sapless smell.
Alone, I sit, and wait
I ponder, think, analyse and debate
Stuck in a twisted, torturous, pensive state
I could power this train if its fuel were frustration
But its wheels remain locked
By perpetual, pointless, perverse, analysation
All that awaits, is a fate of total procrastination
If you choose to stop, at rumination station.