The train lunged in

and out of order.  Heads swayed

like displaced seaweed mocking

gravity.  The stars and moon remained

in place.  Thick metal wheels turn

with conviction.  There is no shame

for those asleep, leaning onto windows,

newspapers for pillows. The miles create

a low hum.  The engine possesses a pure heart.

White smoke rains upward.  Surrounding

breezes are pushed aside; weight has

privilege.  Nameless roads pass by

within a blur like uninvited relatives.

Darkness blocks the view.  The engine

scowls forward.  Vanity is a boastful drunk.



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