Getting Home
My converse damp and leather soaked,
I breathe heavily from running.
The people all around me cloaked,
Before the storm that’s always coming.
The seating offers little warmth,
Despite the heater dead below,
The grotty patterned fabric’s worn,
Disgruntled clockwork’s all on show.
It must’ve been around the place,
And wandered all the dusty tracks,
The traveller without a face,
The leaking windows oozing black.
Of all the lives that it has been,
It ends each and every night alone.
It matters not what it has seen,
As long as this train gets me home.
I breathe heavily from running.
The people all around me cloaked,
Before the storm that’s always coming.
The seating offers little warmth,
Despite the heater dead below,
The grotty patterned fabric’s worn,
Disgruntled clockwork’s all on show.
It must’ve been around the place,
And wandered all the dusty tracks,
The traveller without a face,
The leaking windows oozing black.
Of all the lives that it has been,
It ends each and every night alone.
It matters not what it has seen,
As long as this train gets me home.