A train runs on weary tracks, but its journey is silent.
No laughter in its compartments, no warm hands waving from the windows.
Just empty seats, echoing with ghosts of friendships that never stayed.

The engine—once burning with dreams—
Now chokes on the ashes of what could have been.
It rusts beneath words like "Move on."
It crumbles beneath whispers of "Stop exaggerating."
The coal of passion has turned to dust,
And the wheels—exhausted—drag through the days, waiting for an end.

A track switch, a desperate turn—
But the new path is no salvation.
It floods with hollow sympathies, drowns in veiled threats.
The storm howls, then vanishes, leaving only drought behind.
And the train?
It no longer moves. It no longer breaks.
It simply exists—numb, rusting, forgotten.