Central Line

Surrounded by noise,
Only those lips were felt
between sway after sway,

Brief pauses at stops,
Reading the silent letters
counting and naming

Paradise as it passes.
Breaths were precious
as the wrapping arms,

Hands undoing knots
flowing as a fire,
Tongues with tips that

quietly yearn for more.
Dusty winds blew pale,
Around, but never on

parchment face,
Adorned with all verse
yet to be written,

Each touch, each meeting
of the mouths of pilgrims,
Another poem written

to rest on fingers, and
later be spoken with
delicate touch.

Everything was felt
surrounded by the noise,
Swaying and swaying and


Central Line


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