The next to empty train Roars through the mist of dawn As it passes the lakes and elves The dark and mystic pines -forests that once told of horrors To keep the ones like me From crossing the line-
This box, this crate A testament of the modern man To whom which it serves It is somewhat of a time traveller When it breezes the land That years have made its own
And yet there are scenes from my window That I know are proofs Of exceptions to the rule that reads, “time will take its toll”
All the brooks and oaks And even more so Every bolder and stone Convinces my heart and soul That I need not be marred and scorned Broken and torn By the thistles and thorns And all the bourdons that the lions Of this glass world Convict me to *****
Since there is a side To the manic and indecisive puzzle that is I A side of realism and cynicism Thus I am well aware of my mortality And the scarcity of the time that is mine
My existence is an indirect unwritten vow To never bend my back and bow To never fall in line And receive my share of coals To fuel this machine down the rusty tracks In a race against nature or God A race to prove one or the other Or even both wrong A race we’ve already lost