Young Writers Society

I boarded a midnight train to anywhere,

and now I'm kind of guilty you see,

for I had stood by limbs of broken bark and leaves,
who had stroked my spine, whose uncomfortable touch,
left my shirt soaked through and through,
by the hoarfrost tongue of the countryside's cult of pines.

I felt surrounded then; as I do now,
bound by every hanging branch,
suffocated by nostalgia, and so I tripped and ran,
a white hare, angered by the hoarse pleadings of the quivering limbs,
snagging on my olive, virgin skin as they plead,
won't you stay, oh won't you stay, for another moon's rise?

So more nimble and weary I travelled,
until huffs of gasoline and smoke met my nose, and surely,
I had thought clouds could not smell so putrid and vile - and there!
Surely, I would never thought there would be a way out,
and here before me an oiled train awaits!
But there I stood, a deer in the headlights,
frightened I had gone astray.

But I could not be a passenger, waiting and watching,
hoping my life would get better;
so I welcomed my disgust,
allowed its rancid scent to envelope me,
and hope I not perish in its grasp,
so I abide, although I wavered,
when they opened their fork-tongued,
bark lips to hiss sickly sweet lies.

I could rely on escape no longer,
so I exhaled smog and grinded my teeth together;
for surely, surely
I was my own midnight train.