Temporary friends, travelling in the same
direction, seated on the floor of a train
that did not pass inspection, heated
in arguments, chilled by the outdoors
but thrilled, had never felt the pain
others carried deep within their cores.

As they smoked inside and lied
about succes and achieved goals,
as the roaring fire charred coals,
they searched for a place to hide,
a place to look up at the sky at night
and still feel safe.

By day they read books
and faced exchanging looks
as the rusty train paced
across this barren land
that'd gripped them in it's clutch.

Some drank too much,
were overmanned, forgot to stand.

Its final destination was a meadow
dark and pure, the only light
came from up above as if it meant to lure
our strangers closer to endure
the shinings our moon reflected.

Even if these people weren't to be trusted
even if their skin was scarred, lip busted
and they made decisions with a coin to flip,
why or how they came up with the trip,
if they were classy, sketchy or messy,
no one got rejected. They made this,
the least ignorant form of bliss.