Subway Poem 1.

I used to stare endlessly at those ripped layers of torn poster on the subway.
There was no story or emotion in this act. Just staring.
Sometimes I’d run my fingers over the texture, an absent-minded fixation
with the random arrangements of paper, peeling into an infinity of angles.
The depth of this contained chaos bewildered me. Why does no one else stare?
Tiniest corners of industrial dust piling on its own rust, releases such precious modes of color.
I found worlds in a corner, rendered softly in the flowering decay of advertisement.