Dead Ends of Our Time

Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Sticking me in an office for eight hours a day,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.

Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Bringing me home to where I can be myself again,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.

The difference being I enjoy writing when at home,
But only when it means something to somebody.

Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading to another day and another dead end.

Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading back home to another dead end.

The difference being I can go to sleep when I get home,
And drift away while hoping to never wake up.

Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and bursts into flames.

Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and crashes into the sea.

Every smart man knows when he is no longer needed,
Every smart man knows when to take his final bow.

Yellow Door

Crumbling buildings shrink beside Scotch Hall,
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.

Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.

I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.

Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.

Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.

I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.


(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).