To stop the thoughts that run,
Through our minds like a freight train,
Breaking any barrier they may face.
The train that uses our veins,
As railroad tracks.
Turning. Winding. Ceaselessly.
Through our body that winces,
At every acceleration or sharp turn.
The train that runs over the flowers,
That have been blooming between the rails.
The train that bypasses stations,
Where weary passengers wish to ascend,
Without halting.
It continues with complete disregard for its surroundings,
Running its course, over. And over. And over.
Until our bodies know to predict,
Every turn and change of pace,
So that it winces prematurely,
Knowing what awaits.
To stop this train is a difficult task.
The more obstacles one puts in its way,
The more creative it becomes in avoiding them.
The only hope is to wait,
Until it has burned all its coal,
Until it has nothing left to run on.
But when this train runs on itself,
From what we have within us,
When it runs on the blood that runs alongside it,
Through our veins, pumped by our heart.
Ah, well, then.
All that can be done is to wait,
Wait until our own heart diverts the blood it pumps,
To a different route.
To stop the thoughts that run,
When we wish they would not,
We wait. Patiently.