Station Poems - Poems about Station

Long ago, Mithila was left at this forsaken station, As the train slipped away on the wrong track, cutting all horizons. There was no return Mithila knew it, even then. This waiting was only a silent, endless sigh. In the dust-covered mirror of nostalgia, Her past flickers, bright as gleaming, Unreal in its stillness and beauty. The present? A colourless traveller That tells no...

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Flickering lights cast shadows on the crowd, Each chasing hopes that slip through their hands. Trains whistle past in endless circles, Rushing toward visions that never stay. I stand beneath a single blinking light, Waiting quietly as the crowd fades away. No need to follow fading tracks, No rush to catch a train that disappears. The platform empties, footsteps soften, Only my shadow remains,...

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To carry more than I’ve shown, things I never told about, I still somehow carry the cost of your long forgotten chaos. I stood strong with a heavy heart. I stayed brave because I ought to. There were things I never said, to protect what little of me was left, waiting quietly, your arrival. You never saw me before the silence. That sound still haunts...

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This poem is featured on YouTube (The Convergence point with Dr. Ivan Edwards), bringing its words to life through spoken expression. A gas station on the edge of the city, Neon lights buzzing in the night, graffiti scrawled across walls, the hum of distant traffic our backdrop. The place was nothing special,...

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Three women with umbrellas were waiting for this train. To get on or for someone to get off? I am yet to know. I lost track of them after the people disembarked. Looking for my husband, who would not have an umbrella. My umbrella was at home, I was not expecting this dreary night. My man would not be the...

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A woman at the gas station is unremarkable besides her name tag reading Clarity and her teeth, saying never mind. She asks if I need a receipt. I say no, like I'm not collecting evidence in the glovebox of a car that only drives in reverse. The smell of ethanol summons June bugs: last summer, I siphoned moons from my mother's...

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STATION MEETING The time has come years depart I slap your stomach You throttle me for my gems I have none my gems are the stars sardines swim towards me chains rattle loose to the children in the Wilderness I flee verse2016 ...

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Midnight in my darkest hour The radio turned to nowhere, n nothing The night is open to static, unknown A vice of something from silence moans Its whispers are lost in the either of night Cold moonlight settles on my floor Its liquid form is translucent and unformed I draw the air of midnight, misty cold Feeling dead stations...

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Dead station of soul, cold a cuneiform of heavenly hosts on a cathode ray tube, born shadows of forgotten sliver gods roam digital tears, a broken modem's wail, fear the hollow shell of the sky, cracking nightshade fingernails fawn lost in the echo chamber waiting for a mechanical dawn ...

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Dead station of soul, static old phantom frequencies crackle n fade wraiths, tuning into the echoes of forgotten dreams, decades channels of fractured memories dust motes dancing in moonlight a language lost to time signs and shadows wax on a dying flame into a twilight rain with the pulse of the divintity of silence and static casting secrets to an empty room, void...

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Imagine if there was a brain station for souls Plug in a rhyme magic would pop out no controls With patience sooner or later Writing thousand word essays And the literary world would begin to explode ...

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Life is a slow moving train with many stations along the way. Some stations will be filled with joy some stations we'll encounter pain. Life's journey is a one way ticket as onwards through life we go. Every station whispers secrets at each stop a dream unfolds. Before we reach our destination they'll be many...

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Joint pourings of nations, All from different nations. Funnel of diversity, Cultures melding in. The station holds the might of nations. Flowing round pillars, Through the gates to the station. Different dress from all the rest. ...

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To all of my loves, I'm nothing but a greying power station. They're not interested in me or my well being I'm not sure if they ever were. They come at me with endless barbed babble have little need for dialogue or advice I'm just a chew toy for their mental mice... when their confusion evolves into a vice They have their smart...

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Turning the pages backward I find pressed flowers in my old diary from the day we saw lavender growing in the woods. The sun was swallowed by clouds that were halfway to a metaphor and you told me the eye color of love was dark hazel, the very depth of my own. In a packet of handwritten letters I find polaroids...

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