A five minute stream of consciousness capture of my view from the window of a train passing through a small town not long after the passing of my father.

grey and sick
left behind

matted hair, foul breath
dark tangles
awaiting the nails

there's nothing here
all is gone
picked up and left

the lies of the workin' man
ever closer
lay low and flat
crawling on their bellies
towards their doom


bones of a bronco
rigid and stark
they try to hide
but it's all ribs and fur
and things forgotten

flights of freedom
first one
then the next
a little too late
I watch it seep across the sky
as we grow dim

they treat these trucks
like they treated my father
moved on
and now
nameless in the chill

I grow weary
from this dance
more survival than sport
tired of looking
over my shoulder
and into my heart
fearful of the quicksand
that will pull me in
where the loss lies
and the mourning?
where it's
always night

The End

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