two men have ended their lives by lying down on train tracks.
I have some sense of why.
Train of Thought
A country road late at night . . .A freight train planted in the middle
Of cold winter field stubble like some
Graveyard of worn-out machinery,
Cornstalks scattered like bones.
The train has no beginning or ending,
No destination but here. Rust-flowers
Bloom on the cars and graffiti glows
Like neon signs in a foreign language.
Why here in the middle of nowhere?
Where is it going, and when? There
Is only one way from here, where
Days shorten and darkness deepens;
Or perhaps there is no way at all.
Stars slip away and I think how many
Have already died in a dark like this.
I wait at the crossing, and see my life.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2010-12-22 at 14:38
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