I put my brush in paint
Did not mix colors, just the sound
Of the midnight train
In Bruges
Vapors were like smoke
Yet upon the timid canvas
All looked like snowfall
At midnight in August
Trains are for goodbye
A color I cannot mix
Like the sound a waving hand
Cannot stop making
And it all becomes one
A night away from a new day
When others will ride the train
And hope the journey cannot end
… But trains are for goodbye
March 20, 2017
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2017
On the train looking out the window. Like the spot in the distance that keeps getting smaller. Even though you can no longer see it, is it still there? Gone from sight, but still what? A shadow, mirage, memory hologram? How wide is a distance unseen? Can it be measured by sound or thought or dreams? Thunder and echo.
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