Waiting for my train of words on the way home,
I burn my hands trying to hold the flying dreams go.
The winds through the window speak in silent tones of their own,
the day sings a charm of her own, not caring for the birds fly by as they go.

I stand by the doors, hiding from the shadows of lesser walls around,
the sun beats down in blankets of white, I sleep through the songs of the birds.
I lean against walls of self-made thoughts,
I drench in the drizzle of my own broken memories.
I sit staring at white walls and passing feet,
I wait on, for a train of words, home-bound.