Fabrice B. Poussin

 Living at 55 


It is all a matter of time 

as he watches from the windows 

darkened by years of abandon 

an old cinemascope movie at twenty-four frames per second 

a super high definition at twenty-nine 

lives moving by at fifty-five miles per hour. 


They come and they go without a sign 

making not a trace upon the present 

no memory of their passage remains for the future 

no story to be told for these unknown ghosts 

in a rush to reach the next stop sign 

another supper with friends becoming strangers. 


They hit the asphalt in the early hours 

to slide by again as the skies darken 

hoping for a smooth journey to their temporary homes 

while some will crash into an unseen oblivion 

remembered for a few lines in the morning news 

most will merely perish asleep at high speed. 


Fixated on the lights ahead, their dreams too are in slumber 

fleshy robots they no longer ask those puerile questions 

of those years when still attempting to survive 

their souls have been subdued by the unavoidable race 

intoxicated by the unbearable sleeping agent they call a life 

they continue on the path unable to rediscover their extinct fancies.  

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