Poem

The end of the line


When the thoughts come
Rushing, running down the line
Synapses firing at the finale of the fireworks
Do you get up?

Leave the warmth and security of the bed
To catch the wave
That even now is crashing on the shore
Dissipating in the white foam of memory

I’ll remember, I lie
Knowing it’s a lie
And not caring. Lost in the warmth
And fantasy of sleep to come

Where do these thoughts go
If you fail to wrestle them to paper?
Is there a giant vat of answers
To which they return?

Or do they ride the neural train
To the end of the line
Departing the station with the thin crowd
Tired from a hard day’s work?