With SEPTA by Myself

JA,/WN

Septa by Myself

            Iron dust floats beneath a canopy of sepia stained glass panes suspended above stone terraces. The summer air shines golden from machine made mist as copper spores spray up from amber rails of the train tracks.

            An elderly woman sits beside me. Can she see what I see, as bronze beams shine through the rustic windows overhead, tattooed with spider web cracks?

            The woman’s hair turns platinum in the light of the steel terminal’s crystal ceiling,

It’s quiet. There’s no clang of metal grind in the weave of lead bars spread below. Pillars rusted green echo the distant city sounds.

            A horizon bears the cityscape. Blue buildings become fingers extended to a sallow Philadelphia sky. They play traffic horns and open echoes.

            I turn to speak to the white haired woman. She turns away.

“There are no words you should say,” responds her cheek to my gaze. Her profile braces like a shield to my face after her eyes avert mine.

            We wait patiently and silently together within the goliath structure of the station. A Swarthmore bound ensemble of gears, brakes, wheels, and whistles approaches from the unseen.

            The city still conducts a symphony to the golden glow above. Its blue fingers play away to the ethereal rays of sun so far removed.

Author's Note

What do yous guys think?

Reviews

[PendingResolution]

This. This is righteous.