I run through streets I’ve never known,
With silent skies and cold wind blown.
A suitcase clutched, a ticket torn,
A clock that strikes a sound forlorn.

I see the station far ahead,
Its lamps like stars the darkness fed.
The platform breathes in steaming sighs,
A whistle echoes through the skies.

I miss the train — it pulls away,
My hands reach out, too late to stay.
But then, the world begins to spin,
And I am at the gate again.

The scene resets, the chase anew,
This time a friend appears from view.
They take my hand, they clear the path,
We laugh beneath time’s fleeting math.

Another loop, a crowded hall,
My name announced, I trip, I fall.
But doors hold open just for me,
A breathless leap — I’m flying free.

Yet always just before the ride,
I wake up with the dawn beside.
No journey's end, no final scene,
Just fragments of a shifting dream.

And still, each time, I find a way—
A map unfolds, the signs all say:
“You may be late, you may feel lost,
But every pause has purpose, cost.”

The dream’s not warning, fear, or fate,
It’s whispering: the train will wait.
For those who try, for hearts unsure,
For quiet strength that must endure.

I carry morning in my chest,
Not with regret, but with the rest—
That even in my sleep I know,
I’m not too late — I’m set to go.