The Train

The floor shifted underfoot

Rocking from right to left

Throwing the passengers around

And they swayed in content

In every coach neatly lined up

If you were to glimpse inside

You would see the pale passengers

With their blissful eyes

As you peeked behind each set of curtains

And saw faces alike

You would reach the front of the train

But miss a man perfectly disguised

Seated in the seventh row

Of the eleventh coach

With his eyes against the window

Was a peculiar man

Although he seemed alike

To the other faces

With his blissful poise 

His eyes revealed traces

The man in the seventh row

Of the eleventh coach

With his eyes against the window

Sat assured

With his hands rested on his lap

And gaze fixed on the harsh snow

He knows that by accepting

He quietly revolts

Seated in the eighth row

Of the eleventh coach

With his brow furrowed 

Was a stubborn man

Having sat next to the man behind 

For only moments before being deterred

By the stories the peculiar man told

Of mountains meaningless and absurd

The man in the eighth row

Of the eleventh coach

With his brow furrowed 

Was disturbed

With his hands clasped around his necklace

He tried to avoid the thought in his head

But the thought forced through

And he wondered where this train led

Seated in the sixth row

Of the eleventh coach

With his eyes looming low

Was a tired man

His hands hiding beneath his coat

He had heard the story the peculiar man told

He had heard it before and it followed him close

Now pressed against his wrist, the thin blade felt cold

The man in the sixth row

Of the eleventh coach

With his eyes looming low

Was astray

Despite now knowing where this train leads 

He begins to contemplate

Whether the arrival

Is really worth the wait.