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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact


"Journeys" (by Joe DiMino)

I wait at the station…
Toy with my pen,
Thinking it a sword of sorts—
The joust always
To jot new eposode
Or depth into scratches
Beloved though older—
(Pen in hand
Ready to make contact
With any opportunity
For aboard)—

It is like this with journeys—
With writing;
Often scribbling away
Till finally a phrase
Giving me ticket
For destination to explore—

I am my own mysterious train—

Shadowy stranger

Seated in a dim-lit corner of mind;
A large brim hat
Tipping light further aside,
Plummeting degree
Of already chilling voice—

He goes on about
Depot-treasure: “Beware of Writer Assassin!” He warns;
“Having one purpose—to blot out!—”
A mysterious woman beneath a veil
With haunting lilt of voice
Speaks of owning souls
Can be price for immortal work;
She calls herself Muse—
As does he;
As also a puzzled looking child
Waving goodbye from the platform—
And a dutiful wife
With mixed expression
Handing her passing fool
A brown paper bag
Speared with outstretched hand—
While a large angel atop peak
Of platform summit
With wings a-blur
Feverously fanning away engine smoke
As we depart—

Perspiring devils shoveling from tender to engine
Dark with sot—

Fire leaping new creation
Out of black coal!

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