Looking over my shoulder at the trail long behind...

While the above is a list of poems for accounting, here is a ranking that will be similarly updated! More lighthearted ones are at the top meanwhile slightly darker ones are near the bottom. While they don't have anything triggering unless explicitly said so, they certainly have different vibes then the lighter ones!

woodland edge
- The Old Train Station Platform 4-1-25
- A Rain Soaked Map (I Remember the Way) 4-27-25
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heart of the forest

The Old Train Station Platform

I remember finding the old train station platform,
it was such a bright and sunny day,
it was in a clearing in the woods,
silo and foundations but no train.

I remember finding the old train station platform,
a square border of concrete in the grass,
the silo was across from it at the edge of the clearing,
and on either side was a path.

The paths led deeper into the woods,
one from which I came.
There had been train tracks at one time on that path I walked,
and on it cars that carried grain.

But now there was only a treeless road,
one that I would walk again and again.
Where it had come from no one would say,
and where it had gone was a mystery for another day.

Although I remember standing there,
imagining the whistle of the train ring through the air,
the business of the platform as the train came in,
all hands to work to get it filled as a couple of passengers paid their bill.

Then the memory faded from sight,
that had been a memory that certainly wasn't mine.
I remember asking when and why,
such a place had faded from time,
but no one knew, no one could say.

I looked at the path into the woods,
and where it went I still no not know,
or why the station and tracks had gone away,
but I remember finding the old train station platform that day.

A Rain Soaked Map (I Remember the Way)

A folded map laid at the end of my bed,
wrinkled and worn from wear.
Its paper was yellowed, the lines now smudged,
from the travel it had endured.

I took the page and smoothed the wrinkles,
as I spread it out on my desk,
and carefully read the lines
as they were marked out in pen.

Marks upon the paper,
had ended up smudging the ink
but whether those marks were rain or teardrops,
I wasn't sure what to think.

So I took up the map in my two hands,
and set upon the path,
to tred the way of memories
where I now recollected only half.

I followed the uncertain lines,
but where they wavered I did not.
Such a path made with such pain
was a path carved into my memory.

I walked along the washed out trail,
in a sort of daze to only I know where,
listening to the sounds,
the whispers of the past.

Then suddenly it started to rain,
each drop soothing each little pain
that the memories had brought back
as I tred the way.

But alas,
in my hands it soaked my map,
it smudged the ink and wrinkled the page,
so I folded it up to keep it safe.

I tucked it in my pocket,
the wet and folded map,
to keep it from the elements,
in some sort of hope that it would later help.

I was alone now though,
without any guidance but my mind,
with rain soaked map,
But I remember the way.