Underground heaven

One glance down,
another one, up,
two artists locked down,
two dreamers inside a train car;
world creation in the underground.

She, concentrated, reading notes
softy sol-fing to herself;
Bach or Listz are all that matters to her.

He, in love
of that humming girl
singing descending scales,
focused, with a frowning face.

A sketchpad on his lap,
a simple blue pen in his hand,
a world to create on ink
a dream to turn somewhat real.

And she just doesn't know
that amisdt a whirlwind she is
of quavers and clefs
and that the binder she's got
has turned into a magical organ
that somehow fits in the passageway.

Can't you hear her playing?
It's heaven inside a train.

Hard to understand

I got tired
of trying to find the loophole,
the point where my faith should hold,
the excuse to keep on.

I got tired
of prioritizing what's not important,
of justifying the flaws, the mistakes,
the lack of details.

I cannot find an explanation
to the unforgivable,
to the unforgetable,
to the regretable.

I just can't.
Not anymore.