It is an old train, said to exist
in times before time,
running on the same tracks, running
in circles, through stations
where some arrive or alight
or begin a ride to nowhere.
No driver, no ticket, the fare
is the strength to get on board.
The ride is flowing time well spent
in making mistakes
or learning from them to repent
from high stakes
on simple issues.
Winds of night ferociously persist
in derailing how sublime
it is hear those engines in their running,
as windows capture life in portions
or expose plight by light
as faith cowers to fear.
One cannot do but to finally relent
on lures of empty dreams,
opting to paths where success went,
following passengers who knew
their way on this train and meant
whatever gibberish they said,
though I strained to hear.
Parables of life are told by those
that survived massacres of living
day to day in the drudgery
of waiting and waiting.
They said I shall be weak
when final stop draws close.
Birds from home start singing
as breath becomes lottery,
sporadic and fading
as I speak.
The Train - Prince Mensah
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