train

For once,
I don't really care if you place me second,
or third, or four, or even last.
Do you not see me
(attempting not to notice)
when you're trying to wind back your
silver pocketwatch?
Feigning time and time again.

Sorry.

But it's still pulling forward
like the rusty train on
broken railroad tracks.

chug-a-chug-a-choo choo!
To the little train that could,
good job.
Except,
time, considering it takes the place
of the little blue train,
descends
instead of the usual ascending.

I'll let you
wind back
the pocketwatch,
but will you let me
wind it for you?

Apples train is coming down,
and down and down, a flood of such,
as makes you fearful, even more,
than never spoken words before,
and so the Apples train has come.

Roaring tearing down the rail,
Screaming breaming in the light,
the moon has hidden, stars will cry,
and just atop the engine car,
A brazen figure stands.

Train of Apples never sweet,
Instead, a flash of steel blade,
a spark of terrible imagination.
speeding on a metal rail
that burns brighter in the ebbing day.

Down down the mountain side,
and crash the forms of expectation,
never judge by the outside,
for rust and rivetted iron hide
a blazing soul and restless mind.

Crazy nobs and turning spin,
and spin and spin and spin again,
until you stop, you all will roll
and bounce and bound and slide and go,
until you find the Babbit Train.

You step right on, it whisks you off,
and never running back again,
and running back, and stopping go,
will toss you every to and fro,
while you are on the Babbit Train.

Never like a life you love,
this ride is something more than that,
a little twist and shake and spin,
and can you make a little sense,
while you are on the Babbit Train.

Not for one minute, you can count,
the seconds drag and hours fly,
and Babbit might get in your head,
and if thats so, then God forbid,
that you are on the Babbit Train.

And then when your run is up and spent,
and you can take no more of it,
you take a leap, and leave the madness,
but still, you know you'll never leave,
for once your on, your never off,
forever riding Babbit Train.

River flowing, moving over,
stonewall, brickhouse, forrest field,
sweeping tides of river life,
the river train will flow.

rushing on the beaten path
the golden sunset catch the crest
of silver waves that dance and gush
through arms of open stone.

and river run, the train be done,
the silver tracks will turn to silk
and glide upon the surface,
born to tread the water soul.

Words are lost, are never found,
within the cabins, on the deck,
and rumble by, and pass the world,
and giving little more than thought,
it leaves the world for naught.

Silent train is little train,
for little learn to hold a tongue,
and leave the breathless air untouched,
unscorned by words, and never breach,
the silence of the ghostly speech.

Never spoke, but all is heard,
no more letters need they write,
nore spoken language uttered there,
for all are understood by all,
and pass away to night.

Train is moving
moving on, like bullet in the wind,
searching, train is searching on,
like eagle in the wind.

Fast train speed train
train of brutal heat,
high train low train,
never was an ever train
that ever could have one.

Blink just once, and miss it dear,
and close one eye, and half is gone,
but train train speeding on,
like hope like joy like love like life,
if not too careful, pass you by.

Sorrow more than sorrow bears,
the somber silk so softly flows,
and on the silver rails met,
the stories of the saddest sort,
the pitfalls of the largest tears,
but larger still are those that never fall.

In sweetest silence moves the sorrow train.
above the earth, and then below,
it glides upon the tides of tears,
and weeping, moves it further on,
and from the softened heart a cry,
a whimper to the dying crowd.

If ever more a tear might fall,
and caught atop the silver rail,
might turn it there to plated gold,
and never hear a solemn cry,
might leave the ashes far behind,
and sweep the sadness in the breeze.

Of the more, the most is wise,
and wiser yet, the more it runs,
and tugs the freight of years of life,
experience is one is won,
underneath the boiling sun.

Of the few, the proud is naught,
and fewer still, it boils down,
to nothing left but wiser words,
and choke the haughty loud man down,
and grow again a wiser crown.

Of the most, there is a more,
if ever sought, will open up,
a greater store of bounty still,
and wiser yet, but is not done,
for train of wise is moving on.

Stream of dreams, a field of white,
touched by the cold of an iron rail,
chugging chugging, moving on,
towards day, towards night,
dream train in a burst of light.

Screams the train, and dreaming on,
in moving, where does thought belong,
or if a moment meets the eye,
the dreaming train might pass a cloud,
once hidden in a misty shroud.

Locomotive motion spun,
the rails of train of dream are set,
to bind the real and loose whats not,
for train of dream is moving on,
and catches thought, and then is gone.

Many miles of road ahead,
and many more behind,
lost in thought, my thinking train,
and I just float on in the wind.

Many miles of track have tread,
my thinking train will roar,
down and through, with nothing to care,
no, just the free free air.
And maybe, now, you'll find me there.

Billow smoke, the engine room,
where thoughts are burned to wood,
and fed into the furnace,
where I judge and measure out,
and still, I sit and think
the while my though train moves about.