Subway Blast

Subway Blast

In the insomnia of night

restless souls take to open streets,

dancing like transmute werewolves in the pale light of the moon,

sliding down slick rails into subway catacombs

to ride the urban fury.

Ear-stringed phones pulsate in trance, subsonic beats,

as bobbing heads, a jigging leg

acknowledge the singularity of anticipation.

I join them,

a witness to the howl of the midnight hour,

my eyes leafed in dark shades

as the rapture of my poetry

rises in effervescent composition

floating in the preached rise and fall

of my bittersweet symphony.

And I am struck by the totality of it all,

of our common calling in the fullness of moon,

awaiting some divine moment,

to rouse our consciousness,

to reawaken our passions,

to defend our dignity.

As the whispers of injustice

resonate in the low hum of subway cars,

as the weight of oppression glistens

in dripped humid perspiration,

as the denial of discrimination

screams against the wheel rims and rail

in a sort of friction class rage,

I see the world as it is.

Amidst the quieter multitude

dreaming from carefree cocoons,

my proclamation is scrawled

on these caked walls of petulance

in simple four letter words

even they will understand.

- Mark Trubisky

Inspired by the painting “Subway Blast”