Ponderings of a late train ride

The wind produces a cold and slicing pain
On skin irritated by January rain
We spend our life digging trenches and growing grains
In the time it takes for one pale horse to exhale
Then it’s over
The it’s all past
Calculating the masses of planets just to know exactly when they crash
When the comet will commit the plummeting on us peasants
We are all pieces of art just without a premise present
And still we’re splitting hairs about the king and his heirs
While the drowning victims are desperately gasping for air
Most people just gasp for attention but attention spans are clipped
Since most folks just want a laugh at 15 golden minutes of a misfit
It’s a progressive depression that’s rising
Because most our dreams stay painted on the canvases inside our eyelids
Maybe we could make’em real, look back and say:
“How surprising that our micro cosmos could have this wide of a horizon!”