Not All Stops are Called

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #188.

It's always dark in the mall that died; the seats feel gritty,

the windows are blank and all the stores empty.

There's one door open back behind the large department store

I slip in and walk over the torn, glassy floor.

Someone has filmed the life as it left, most people prefer it gone;

consumption is always deadly, some moan.

But I continue to walk through these laminate halls to remember

the books, my friends, the lit windows...

It's always dark in the last hallways; the hard seats left empty;

I'll rest between starvation and plenty.

The benches remain, the walls rot, and ceilings spread stains

I close my eyes and wait.

This is the first last stop at this station, open since devastation.

Theoretically, with Thanksgiving past and a chill weekend to remind us it's no longer a lingering summer/fall combo, we're supposed to have moved on to decorating for Christmas. In the spirit of fiction, let's say that happened. Let's say the last few days of November consisted of putting the finishing touches on a few zines (including one about a fantastic convenience store...cover below...and a rat who desperately needs a snack). 

Let's say we're about to heat up the hot chocolate, pour it in a driving mug, and head out to look at the first Christmas lights of the season in a car full of carols. Let's say the holidays have returned with a cheery vengeance. Merry, merry. Hope your cocoa is warm and your bells clear in the night! (and that your entire family doesn't come down with we-haven't-been-out-in-public-in-months colds)

-- Chrissa