Ink-Stained Scribe

September at the Station

September at the Station

In this busy city, with its blurred passers-by
there's no room for a person like me.
I amble on, listless, my gaze taking in
skyscrapers, and sidewalks, and streets drenched in rain.

The station's a field of umbrellas
that bloom overhead in the storm
and the faces of those with someone to go home to
are tangible ghosts of the me that was born far away.

There's a chasm inside, and emptiness by me,
that I feel every time when I lay down to sleep--
a big solid hole where someone I don't know
is missing, though I don't know whose face I should see.

A flannel shirt, a mini-skirt; maybe all of it's wasted
on people I don't even know.
Who am I fooling with outward displays,
with neon and billboards for what's in my soul?

Can I call you with music, with laughter or tears?
Can you see through the me that I play?
Can you hear in my voice, in the sound of my singing,
the truth words alone can't convey?