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I like trains. I like their rhythm, and I like the freedom of being suspended between two places, all anxieties of purpose taken care of: for this moment I know where I am going.”

                   ~ Marianne Wiggins

the rails always culminate in a destination but the decision of choosing one train can alter your reality. the unseen connections they form; the embodiment of the rubber reality we live in

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the poem (following) written by Riddhi and Shreya is an eight-way symmetry poem idealizing the metaphysical nature of trains. you can read it any way you like - as separate columns, alternating, left to right, right to left zig-zag, left to right zig-zag, criss-cross, backward, and any other way you can fathom. 

Check out Shreya's cool site:



Shreya & Riddhi

a directionless direction

veering off path,

this dusty, forlorn track,

kicking dust into my eyes.

the further I walk,

the wind weaves its way

on broken rails and stop signs -

realize, realize the art of creation.

it’s an antique: like the antiques within,

nail by nail

The dim entrance, criss-cross on the elevator,

awakening the conscience

to the futures to come.

of journeys past,

and a screech of whistles.

the monotony of rails

of journeys past,

Maybe -

I’d like to know mine.

stepping out rusted doors

with feet hitting the ground,

lost in the shuffle --

with gravel around.



I leave the dust behind,

trudging on to marvel at creation and

imagining a world on squeaky wheels.


fleeting but permanent,

a fading remembrance of the past.

hammered into everlasting.

an echo of old choo-choo trains,

and slipping in the glistening oil.

a hidden world

a sense of belonging

of romances, reunions, and rendezvous.

destiny exists.

​I’d like to know mine.



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f a c e s 

to be a leaf swaying 

through the wind 

to be a pedestrian 

falling on the street

to be a mayfly amongst 


to try to understand the 

imperceptible power 

pervading the world; 

to be a smile on the 

face of a girl 

and shine in her memory 

as a moment saved

without planning

"We are the music makers, we are the dreamers of dreams"

Roald Dahl


spiders in the attic crawl

into your body

weaving your heartstrings into

cobwebs, trapping flies.

complicated symmetry

tragically magic, leading from

ambiguity to death;

the smooth passage.

excelling at pulling strings

amidst the violence

looking for silence.

to the caterpillar - end of the world

to an artist - the beginning of a masterpiece:

a butterfly.

a spider consuming all beauty

but weaving its own

delicate lace intertwining with grace

a consummate force of patience.

an innocuous corner for her masterpiece

the museum of nature.

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