Poetry: Conductor

There’s a train I’ve seen pass

behind two corridors of blue.

There’s only one passenger left,

ticket stamped, passing through.

 

The passenger knows where it’s going.

She tries to resist,

but the train has no brakes,

so she must quietly sit.

 

The train travels deeper,

the corridors gone,

the tracks growing steeper,

as she clings to a song.

 

But the song’s not enough,

and soon they’ve arrived

to the pit, the wasteland.

Tears squeeze through shut eyes.

 

She covers her ears

and prays to be deaf,

but the whistle still sounds,

destroying what’s left.

 

She knows what awaits her,

been through it before,

but it still burns like fire

as she melts to the floor.

 

The train’s shrill call

screams that she’s weak.

She tries to be strong,

forced into sleep.

 

The train travels on.

Only I hear her cries,

until the light comes;

she has survived.

 

The passenger gets up.

She’s forced on her way,

so I wave goodbye

until the next end of day.

 

For you see, I’m the whistle,

and I’m her song as well.

I am the conductor,

and she’s under my spell.

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