An untitled poem.

[emo_tony]

Mottled orange headlamps
cutting through paintbrush fog;
early morning workers
lost in the whites and greys
of a smoke-filled winter day.
Mud on the tracks
leaks earth through the snow
as shrill piercing squeals
of brakes and whistles unite.
In the distance, factories and churches
are divided by the cutting line
that carries blurred bodies away
from empty-handed treelines
and none-descript arches
that always greet them home.

Out of view, smaller blurs waltz
through drifts on pavements,
commuting to a school
where teachers wait
with the tools that form them
into the blurs that stand by the lines
that always greet them home.