The Invisible, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Invisible

The sultry summer’s setting sun sent rays,
Into the belly of the cool damp bridge,
Where cavemen left their colored painted sprays,
Along with their smelly stacks of garbage.
The discarded urine stained mattresses,
In a row abutting jambs of cut stone,
Offering shelter for long tailed creatures.
It won’t be long before they’re not alone.
Up above the howling freight train rumbles,
Shaking the ground below as would a quake,
And into the river it sends ripples,
With such horror the dead it would awake.
It is silent now the train is distant.
The tired sun slides behind the horizon.
Missing occupants will make their descent.
This day of misery is almost done.
Their shoes against the gravel can be heard.
In their step seems as if there’s heavy weight.
The air reeks of aches. No one speaks a word.
It’s not known if on this day any ate.
All are absorbed into total darkness.
Each struggles with an internal battle.
Seeing tomorrow they are not anxious,
To walk the streets being invisible.

Train Smoke, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Train SmokeTrain Smoke, Edvard Munch (1900)

Train Smoke

Life is like a train ride, from birth to death.
We all know our final destination,
Yet there can be solace along the way.

The train makes many stops on its journey,
For its passengers to gather postcards,
And bright stickers to place on their baggage

I see many babies coming aboard,
Held so securely, in their mothers’ arms
With no understanding of the event

At stops, relatives and friends disembark.
Some wave joyfully as the train departs,
Others trodden off, all I see are backs.

I look at my disheveled bag, and smile,
There is not anymore room for stickers,
Then I close my eyes, to see my postcards.

Awakened, I feel the train slowing down.
It makes a grinding, screeching, ugly sound.
Oh, this is my stop, I must now get off!