Turnstile Transitions

Each tick of the turnstile clicks, echoes loud,

as faces pass through in a whirl, a cloud

of lives colliding, just a slip away,

from touching a hand, catching a gaze,

I watch them dance in hurried lines,

some dart through, others stall,

like moments caught on the edge of time,

a sudden thought in an unquiet mind,

waiting for the signal, to slip on through,

clutching my bag, feeling the push and pull,

that constant spin of rushing heat,

a churn, a mess, an urgent beat.

Faces flash bright then fall away,

each held in their own fray,

I wonder if we’re all just wandering souls,

seeing through glass—yet never whole—

till I step forward, and hear it creak,

this life, a turnstile, rushing sleek.