This morning, at the station,
I saw the train to Hell roll in.
I stood aside,
To see what stubborn brave would be discarded
And what abandoned soul climbs in.
But the waiting grind of grey commuters
Crowded thick around each door,
Not seeing, it seems,
What sort of thing they were embarking,
What destination lay in store.
And those poor souls inside the carriage
Whose eyes could still betray a little light
And wanted to get off,
Were barricaded by the jostling mass
And could not exit, struggle as they might.
I’m shouting: no! look what you’re doing!
But all those silent heads display no fear;
The vacant eyes,
The noses buried in the news
Don’t see or sense the strangeness
And ears plugged in to plastic dreams won’t hear.
I leap into the crowd, pulling wildly
But dying flesh just falls away from greying bone
And as I pull away,
More bodies start to crowd behind me
With so much grim intent their instincts honed.
The train pulls out.
The disappointed on the platform
Reform and crowd again
Around those phantom doors,
In waiting for another train.
Well, I am less impatient.
Perhaps, next time I try,
They’ll heed my unseen gestures
And hear my silent cry.