Fragments of the Forgotten

Bent over the windowsill, at anchor point
I look below at an injured gargoyle
Ravaging through the litter,
Symbiotic parasites miserably feeding off his flesh,
Ironically macabre in sight.

I hear the last train, sleepily calling in the distance,
I wonder about the last passenger,
Deceived from the company of absolute strangers,
The nippy night seem to trick his counting of posts
Between the only two stations
He bothers to be on a first name basis with.

Greasy overalls drape the rail yard worker,
And lying on his side in the abandoned coach
Over the scent of some beloved's pillow,
He stares at the last retreating pedestrians of the day
With a twinkle in his eye.

Sometimes, there's a rustle in the attic,
When a bat dives from a high rise
To shelter in a crouch near the oval window,
Knocking at the moldy glass,
For a sonar exchange, existing without feeling.

These evenings freeze in an orange daze,
Numb hands steering a stationary projectile,
Ever so subtly indicating in the periphery
Purple veins and speed limits
That maybe walls can be torn down.

Nobody speaks the same language,
Because droplets don't run along your scribblings,
But it's almost humorous,
To see the depression of your thumb in your slipper,
Even noses finally touch the ground.

I empowered a mesh of jute
To be stronger than my breath,
But I left you a gift beneath all my flesh,
A pandora box of reminisces
Of all those times I let you under it,
And every time you drew a line and asked me to hop over,
So here's a blank page inside that totem,
I wasn't deserving of your questions,
You aren't deserving of my answers.