The cradle of the station corridor

The cradle in the station corridor 

swings on the wind

which sings me a lullaby 

of rusty blood and a crisp air.

The newborn babe

was there scorching me

with the dark melody 

that beat against the pale walls

and come back to me and echo.

Would you kill the lullaby for me?

Would you purge me of the melody?

Would you?

Make me haunt.

Make me hum the lullaby.

Make me the crisp air.

Make me disperse.

Let me be the babe.

Till I drip the rust 

and swing on the cradle 

of the station corridor.

Photo credits: Julia