Long sat I in the station chair
Staring compelled by sparrow eyes,
Perching below brisk, rainy skies.
Flit, they flit, from my steady stare
As I brush back her wilted hair.
Lovely, she smiles, trembles, and sighs
Honeysuckle. Sparrows arise
To a fogged morning with despair.
A crackling voice bids me obey
And I stand and walk to the door.
Now the fog is her’s, calling for
Me, ‘Go no further. Not today.’
Two options within my soul war:
Do I board? Rather, do I stay?