Rumination Station


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.