Every Open Pore

The roof is a jig-saw of iron veins scarred with dead-smoke. The occasional un-cracked face of glass peers down, remembering steam. Each second is full, bubbling with noise to spare newspapers crackle, feet tic along cement. Machinery breathes as we push from the platform. Not far enough from the panic, fields lay placid fierce colors reach for your eyes, wash them in your marble sockets. Sharp green rivers sway, the glades sweating, lure you to exist amidst their mirage. Crimson curls along your cheeks, its finger rolling out the creases. Skies weigh hard again, crunching clouds hold in the tears. The walls arch as the tracks merge into tunneled darkness. Feet tic along cement again, voices echo, the heat from the person next to me leans hard against skin. Invading every wrinkle, every open pore.