Burning Trains


Often, sinking into foam,
On our transport all alone,
With nothing but the neon glow
Of the broken signs to show
What path lies before, behind.
In the distance, obseverent eyes
Not at all the lonely spies,
We’ve long taught ourselves to despise.
Beside this wreakage, unmoving I,
There in the cold the same as me,
A myriad of eyes I plainly see.
At the end of the tunnel, this is the light:
Just another broken train burning bright.

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