The Train

The trees disappear past you

You push forward

Blindly.

Why see what lays ahead

The path is smooth in front.

Predictable. Planned.

The train hurtles on.

Not stopping.

Never stopping.

You are but a ghost 

Of the person who boarded the train.

Mere traces of the original

Passenger.

The destination now leaves

A stale taste in your mouth.

But still the train hurtles on.

Not stopping.

Never stopping.

The train has always been there.

There was never another plan

Other than the trains' master schedule.

Leaving is frightening.

The train is predictable.

The planned is familiar.

There is no tacks into the unknown.

The train still hurtles on.

Not stopping.

Never stopping.

The only stop is the end of the line.

The end of time.

Not stopping.

Never stopping.

But the train still hurtles on.

And on.

And on.