The Signalman
The night is another land
With strange shapes
And deformed hands,
With faces half seen
In lucid dreams,
With phantom pains
And noises
No-one can explain,
I gaze out the window pane
At the flames dancing
Across night's black membrane,
The signalman's burnt down
His cottage,
He's gone insane,
He's lost the timetable
To the suburban trains.
Submitted: May 07, 2018
© Copyright 2023 tom mcmullen. All rights reserved.
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