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This wasn't the train. It scooped you up to a different destination. Birds of splendor followed along
Out the window
Winding in your path of grief. Be ready for the station waiting
To greet your sorrow.

The platform is not clear. The mist hides the light then becomes a flow of water you can reach and touch. Become aware of the grief but don't move towards it. See it instead in the palm of your hand. Dip into the water cupped in your hands to cleanse your sorrow.

You will have times of freedom. Embrace all feelings. Let them fall into the stream of water. You will lighten. You will see more color as the mist dissappears.

You will see the light between the leaves of the trees. The sounds of song birds lifting you up with messages for you alone.
I got on the go-away train
The same one I wished on while you were gone

My bags all packed for the plane
One last hope left in the side pocket

A hope you might not let me go
Squished between my toothbrush and t-shirts

But we both listened to the whistle blow
And you watched the go-away train take me

How could you let there be oceans between us?
When I can barely stand a centimetre

Why, when you just sit there motionless,
Do I have to crawl the earth to keep up with you?
Hunter Dec 2023
In the silence of the night, footsteps echo,
A man walks a solitary path, a journey untold.
Shadows lengthen, as the city holds its breath,
An unspoken weight in the rhythm of his steps.

The neon glow of urban life flickers,
Illuminating a face weathered by the weight of shadows.
Eyes, once reflecting the universe's wonders,
Now mirror a desolate cosmos, devoid of stars.

He moves with purpose, a specter in the urban sprawl,
Echoes of despair resonate with each step.
Train tracks, a silver ribbon of destiny, await,
A final destination etched in the cold steel.

The night air, pregnant with unspoken farewells,
Breathes life into the silhouette of his solitude.
A decision crystallized in the stillness,
As he approaches the threshold between worlds.

The distant wail of a train, an approaching requiem,
Steel wheels on rails, an ominous hymn of finality.
The man, standing at the edge of oblivion,
A silhouette against the impending locomotive's glow.

In the interplay of shadows and artificial light,
A soul grapples with the void,
unseen and unheard.
The city sleeps, unaware of the silent elegy,
As the man surrenders to the oncoming tide.

In the final breath before impact, a fleeting tableau,
A life extinguished in the collision of despair and steel.
Train tracks, witnesses to a story's tragic terminus,
As the city awakens to a dawn without one soul.
kha Sep 2023
it would've been a month of voice messages,
delusions, and silly advances.
but on the 26th day,
i'm still on the way.

every time i pass by any train,
or the skies prevent to pour the rain,
26 days of crippling pain,
now numb, hopeless,
yet still a crackbrain.

no one seems to fill the void you left
but they elude me from that silent altercation
you were probably the best choice
even on the 26th day of separation

have you forgotten that fast,
or probably i didn't linger enough?
i should've pressed my nails deeper onto your arms
i should've kissed you against the alarm

maybe if the train ride lasted longer,
maybe if the sunset wasn't purple,
maybe if we didn't dream the ugly denouements,
maybe there would be a 33rd day.
mb
AP Vrdoljak Sep 2023
Is a poem not just a song
with rhyming verse
that’s not yet sung?

With repeated chorus
not yet stuck
inside one’s head,
amongst the muck?

Is a poem not just a song?
A daisy chain of verse
not yet strum

around a fire
among some friends
deep in the woods
on away weekends.

Is a poem not just a song
not yet proclaimed
by a choir’s tongue?

But uttered silently
in a bed-lamp’s light
at early hours
of the night.

Is a poem not just a song
that peacefully rests
in black ink upon

a white page
inside a book,
upon a library shelf
until it’s took?

Is a poem not just a song
quietly set to lips
that read along

on a train,
on the way back home
from visiting gran
for tea and a scone?

Is a poem not just a song
unset to keys
and not yet begun?

Not yet major,
and not yet minor.
Just metered in beats
and little other.

Is a poem not just a song?
I suppose it could be
but not this one.
Psych-o-rangE Aug 2023
1 I attended with my new suit
1 I barely made it to and back
1 I watched from a screen
1 I missed the train
1 I've been preparing for

2018-2023, 5 years.

I'm 25 years old
My dads getting old too
My mom I had to convince to come
Eyes of familiar faces to watch me stand or stumble
I just want you all to know, no matter what, I love you

A son, step-son, brother, half-brother, nephew, grandson, grand nephew, boyfriend, partner in this same suit
You made me who I am

Farmor, especially you.
Farmor means father's mother/grandmother in Swedish
Carlo C Gomez Apr 2023
Today, my train of thought
Is a bit off track.
It's a dark and confusing smokestack.
You see, questions abound.
So buckle in as I go to town.

Which cider you on?
Apple or hard?
If a tree falls on a copier
And no one is around to see it,
Does it make a forest?
I'm rooting for yes; but quite unsure.

How many coins can a fountain hold?
I wish I knew.
Is Paul dead or the walrus?
Is Paul dead AND the walrus?
Coo coo ca choo.

What's the beef about red meat?
It fills but kills? It sells but fells?
Who knows!
The proof is in the pudding.
All other desserts are unsubstantiated,
I suppose.

If peanut butter leaves Los Angeles
Traveling east at 100 miles per hour,
And jelly leaves New York
Traveling west twice as fast,
Will they become a sandwich when they meet?
What a treat if they did.

Maybe one day these
Universal questions will be solved.
But for now, I'm quite dizzy
From all the lunacy involved.

Catch you later...
Melody Mann Apr 2023
I saw your ghost on a train downtown -
it beckoned me to walk down memory lane once more

What a feverish recollection of unspoken dreams,
for familiarity of passing your stop created this melancholy haste -
the agony of persisting despite the lack of closure

your shadows still linger on the platform as I push forward,
ever reminding me of what could have been; nostalgia.
Day 3: National Poetry Writing Month
Follow along the magic on IG@solaceamongsolitude
Eloisa Jan 2023
And my melancholic train got derailed again at the chaotic intersection of holding on and letting go.
Robert Ronnow Dec 2022
Across the track, a rail yard worker
big innocent bear of a guy, beer
belly, embraces his girl. She’s
a conductor, comes up to that belly,
reaches arms not quite around
his back. They separate and embrace
three times while the train prepares
for departure.
                           Across the aisle,
a mother and son. Lights out, change engines,
they play Mercy. Squeeze fingers until one
cries mercy. The son still too small
to seriously challenge his young, athletic
mother. Ask and answer questions, laugh
and cry mercy, she draws and he colors
the features.
                         Unless a society
expects its fate to be better than its past,
it will strive to make its present
immutable as possible.
Optimism is a way of exploring failure.
It says there is no law of nature
or supernatural decree preventing progress.
Nearly all failures, and all successes, are in
our future.
—Deutsch, David, The Beginning of Infinity, Viking Press, 2011.
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