The Tunnel

SPREEPARK by Jan Van de Ven

 

Nobody can see,
there’s no one to stop you.
Throw caution to the wind and buy a ticket
even though its one way only
the tunnel beckons and the music drops the rhythms like breadcrumbs
and you follow
shivering deliciously at the dark
“keep your arms and head inside the train at all times.”
“keep your head…”
and the night suddenly erupts in color and the scents of cotton candy and frying dough
and blood, sweat and 
fears
The mirrors only reflect outwards in here and you’re suddenly glad you came 
because you’re not in Kansas anymore
you’re in a place that’s not possible
not real
well, you never belonged in the real anyway…
because the specters that walked through your nightmares
stopped and told you
told you 
             things
and you listened
wrapped in the comfort of the dark
while in the daylight chattering hurt your head and made you dizzy
like needles in your eyes and ears
and those that dwell in the sun called you slow
and dumb
but some roses only open in the dusk
will only share their fragrance with the denizens of midnight
the tribes of the moon
and you are fully in their shade now
as the train speeds up and the borders are melting
and the nightmares ride hellbent to meet you
and you know you have finally come
home.
©jayetomas2014
*photography by Jan Van de Ven “Spreepark”*
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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3 Responses to The Tunnel

  1. dellanioakes says:

    I like this very much! The imagery engages the senses. Excellent.

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