The tracks are shaking,
and I'm trying to balance.
being squished between
men with strong cologne
and ladies with overly powdered
faces.
Because they know it'll
come off by the time
they reach the office.
All these people
speeding past
through a loophole
in time.
They're frozen,
waiting for this portal
to reach the next stop.
The music freezes,
and they hold their pose.
It plays, and their feet come
down again
onto the crosswalk to
their daily work office building.
It goes everyday,
the stops always gray,
always the same,
with the droning figures
walking onto it's platform
and onto the train.
Their pressed suits get wrinkles,
and the ladies perfume
fades.
It's the portal of time,
that rushes back and forth
through the frozen
cycle.
They rustle and bounce,
with the world speeding
outside the fogged up windows,
and the skyscrapers pinpointing
the sky in a blur.
