Mist of Alphabet

A spun mist weaves dreams upon found objects,
dead tracks and wrinkled seats hold memory,
the station breathes softly, like a remembering iron heart.
The thread slips among dead clocks and faded signs;
transforming signals into petals of ink,
a secret garden of lost alphabets is born.
The letters unfold, A, B, C, names hidden in cracks and wind;
every sign sprouts between rails and steel leaves,
words that grow like grass along the tracks, light and tenacious.
Entering, the unknown becomes home, abandonment yields to the garden;
the found alphabet smells of copper and paper,
and the station, now secret, keeps dreams that travel quietly.