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.