Train Tracks

Self-induced scars provide the metaphor for making a choice.

Guided lines of twisted fury
Now proclaim the wretched fate,
No broken heart could say it better
Than evidence of past actions:
One quick movement will seal the road
Off from any pedestrian interruption
Or from master waiting at the gate.
There remains the faded crash forever.
It is the pivot point we all ignore
In the mire of crossed emotions,
Heads a-spin and minions to it,
The speeding vehicle of anger.
We select a ride without signs
To trip a doomed passage into action;
New pivot points are overtaken.
Yet, everything depends upon
Those wrought indicators.
I could have changed my course of thought –
Perhaps I should have fought –
One resolution missed by an inch,
When I reached with the other hand.
I carved myself a path through skin;
In doing so, I waved the flag –
Called suicide to wills and sense,
Beckoned in the next, and the next.
I chose one journey open-eyed,
But absent of the open mind,
For it had snapped under the pressure,
That rattling, emotion-filled pressure.
An external choice was made
So scantily from scanning the boards
That declared my way of travel was no more.
Guided lines of twisted fury,
Reminiscent of my brain –
And my scars: my train tracks.

The End

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