The Train

She boards the train

with calculated caution and

adequate reason—she convinces herself.

Now she’s on the train

the clattering beast, her old foe;

no railings, only wings.

The way she floods her eyes

with intention, searching for a

destination that seems to be soaring

past the windows, illicit ghost stations

that, for some reason, excite her.

She denies. There’s no way

you will be able to persuade her.

She sits, content with this journey,

this so-called adventure, this anticipated

quest of the heart. In her certainty

and incorrigible wisdom she will not

be bowed. She will not listen.

If you beseech her to

come to her senses

she will angrily and promptly

produces the train ticket from her

hand, asserting justice and righteousness,

and you shall suspect lunacy: a girl

sitting on a weathered bench, wrapped

in her flamboyant traveling coat,

humming a gentle tune,

holding a suitcase that is empty,

and her hair adrift with

a mythical wind.

There is no train. There never

will be a train. There is only

a mirror, tugged carefully in the

folds of her reason which

on its surface contains

the reflection of a pair

of clear-cut diamond eyes,

ever-seeing and ever-knowing,

shimmering like stars in the dark.

This is unlike my usual writing style…I’m trying to explore different modes of expression. This “mode” is inspired by Leonard Cohen’s poem, “What I’m Doing Here”, which is an excellent poem about…hehe, I won’t tell you what it’s about. Or you’ll be influenced by my interpretations! If you’re thinking about reading it, that is. It’s about 20 something lines. It’s super short and it’s worth a read.