industrial thunder

Trains shunting,
all through the night.
Industrial thunder.
Not the same kind of magic.
It wears on me.
It wears on me,
And then it comforts me.
There is movement in the world.
Always movement.
Even when I lie still.
Like blood coursing 
through arterial networks.
Supply and demand.
There are needs to fill.
So many things
we can’t stop consuming.
Taking,
for granted,
the viability.
I am sick of wanting.
Everything.
Awake and empty.
Impatiently awaiting sleep
(or a train full of everything I ache for)
to arrive.
To relieve me
of this hard moment
where I am existing.
Only existing.
And it is too loud.

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