These tracks keep winding down mountainous terrain.
Rocking nauseous for days, standing without a handle.
Trying to talk to the caboose about letting me off early.
I’m trying to survive this train.
There’s no measure for survival along the most arid of planes.
Sunlight commands my skin to blister as it forces through glass.
I feel I’m inventory not a passenger.
I hope I can survive this train.
The skies cloudy and doubtful through the ceiling drops rain.
Link by link they trace down in spirals to my rusty anklette.
From heart strings to the break cord to the ties these times sever.
I don’t know if I can survive these chains.
I grasp my chest as the feeling of pliers squeeze, my heart strains.
Lightning strikes the car’s metal casing.
The lights explode from old issues engineered in the design.
I’m trying to survive this train.
Sweat and tears roll slowly to the drains.
I hear the squeal of iron as the handle is depressed.
We drift through a fog that is not what it seems.
I hope I can survive these chains.
The rattle of this beast screams to me with no name.
I cannot turn to know what takes place behind me.
The windows turn dark with ash dusting across their clean surface.
I’m not sure I can survive this train.
We continue with no rest and move forward without gain.
Mouths gasp for air but find no presence or peace.
The car has gone cold despite the heat bleeding from me.
I don’t know if I can survive this change.
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