Fine, polished black steel bullet
Fired out of nowhere, heading into circumstance.
Sleek, cold rails rumble the wheels into frenzy,
spinning endless revolutions, hot sparks mocking each long, stainless car.
Windows reveal landscape with no distinct definition or design,
just a deep, hollow void, a chasm that demands my full attention.
Darkness compels my silence, broken only by the empty,
lonely wail of a whistle occasionally pulled by an uncertain engineer.
I long for quiet chatter, to curl up like a kitten on soft, inviting benches,
to read a well-worn book, to sing softly to myself,
but I must keep a constant vigil in fear of an unknown destination,
and a shame and pale faced driver whose phantom train has no control.
The darkness here defeats him while chaos clamors at our windows,
And I sit longing for a smooth, straight and open track without confusion,
that simply leads in one glorious direction, here to there,
to be safely carried along, so I can breathe, and rest, and sing again.