My pleasure! I post poems I wrote with photos I took daily 😄

iv.

I feel the steam rise in my marrow.
My inner clock is now unlocked —
the train departs the straight and narrow
for brighter track. November turns to naught.

✋🏼🧵

iii.

back to the station Summertime
where once I sat in sunblanket street,
sipping fruity wine ’til after nine
when my inner sun last felt complete.

🧵👇🏼

ii.

Locomotive goes into gear, fired by a tear.
Clouds won't disperse: The train feels like a hearse.
I, engineer, blow the whistle, shed the fear.
Heartverse shifts the engine full reverse

🧵👇🏼

iii.

while the propaganda channel
tells us all how great it is
in morning discussion panels.
A fact-talking fox? Hell, it’s showbiz —

and it's just a tick and a tock
until those walls will too break down.
We’ll dance barefoot on the ramparts,
on reclaimed holy ground.

✋🏼🧵

ii.

right up to that day
in November ’89
when the walls of the state
crumbled to a heap of time.

Now new walls are built
’round a different distant land
that was once a city on a hill,
a shining beacon, grand,

🧵👇🏼

iii.

And the workers still are broke
and they still have little say,
but those glorifying murals —
welp, they still praise them today.

✋🏼🧵

ii.

praising all the workers
in quasi-religious iconography
while the peasant-worker state
was built with concrete atrophy.

The workers had little say
in what they had for rights,
but they got their fair share
of lignite-dusted urban blight.

🧵👇🏼

vi.

Had I seen what I saw,
heard what I heard?
Or was it merely the call
of a moon-borne black bird?

I sat in the pew,
a pause in my grief:
for a beat, all I knew
was that he’d granted relief.

✋🏼🧵

v.

In the space of a thought
I heard his song ringing out,
its ribald melody naught
but a sing-song glad shout.

And then he was gone
from my now drying eyes,
the echoes of song
faded — a dust-mote of sighs.

🧵👇🏼

iv.

As I sat in the night
of the darkened stone space,
the flickering candlelight
briefly showed a pale face

of a laughing young man,
his silver cup raised up high
in toast to the lands
beyond the farthest of skies.

🧵👇🏼

iii.

Some say those who mourn
might hear the voice
of faithful departed, reborn
in the shadows: rejoice.

🧵👇🏼

ii.

On this night of All Saints’,
their many souls gathered ’round,
flitting in shadows, faint
and making no sound

that could be discerned
by physical ears
except by those who’ve learned
to listen with tears.

🧵👇🏼