This life lurches on like a heavy steel wound train, tracks below worn as we roll along
Click-a-clanking, metal crunching the tattered ground below, when she’ll stop nobody knows.
The massive machine sways and flows, a heap of armory– wind bellows and spills in every which way as the night sky nips at all who lie below.
Frost climbs and makes its way in and through everything that lies at it’s mercy, nothing feels closer to death than my cheeks as they are preserved by the icy wind– this must be how the eskimo’s must have felt, and why they have lived so long.
All I know is I have lived long enough, and seen so much. Pictures that lay strewn across the floor, they move so quickly as they begin to form the roll of film of my life. Random memory filled squares with barriers of white separate the mismatched pieces of my past. A random sequence of colored squares tell a story, of brokenness and efforts of self-repair.
As we hum along, the photo’s rattle to the clanking of the wheels–shifting and shuffling along the floorboard. Sometimes the train is a beautiful and wild adventure, and yet otherwise out of control and unstoppable– quickly approaching a destination unknown.