The Train

The Train is always rushing,

Upon the weather-beaten tracks.

It leads to nowhere,

that legend I have heard many times.

Of freedom and a world of iridescence. 

It travels loudly and lazily, the constant shaking of the train.

I say it runs in a loop, 

A loop of consciousness that drifts through the air.

It fades over a sketch, on the canvas

that is ensnared by the charcoal that slashes

pain of its withering ashes.

It reveals nothing but a cage, 

metal and brittle.

The ribbons of memories sidle up the bars like snakes,

poised elegantly and dangerously. 

They melt into the metal,

seeping through the unfeeling barriers of the inanimate object. 

Threads of emotions bind together in a fluid movement,

a scene is painted out, sepia and bleak

of memories that flow away and evaporate into thin air

dusting away the atoms that burst and reform.

Film frames are discarded and the images

blend into a mixture, a compound of black.

The Train leads to nowhere, they say.

Because it is the rebirth of the passengers

innocent and renew.

They alight as hollow shells

waiting to be filled up

until they board The Train again.