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Poem

By a rotted down shack 
Near an old railroad track,
The trains rattled past and sometimes came back;
There’s a thin plume of smoke
From the old chimney stack,
An underfed scar on a night painted black.

Hangs a dead end sign
On the long disused line
By a hole in the earth like a bottomless mine;
It’s so hard to conceive,
It’s so hard to define
When the darkness prevails and the stars never shine.

In the mind of the tramp
He sets curse on the cramp
That lays waste to his joints in the cold and the damp;
And he swigs aftershave
In this refugee camp,
By diseased, ragged flames of a paraffin lamp.

The town that once stood
Made of brick, glass and wood
Now plays host to the ghosts like an empty town should;
As a starving dog howled
Just as loud as he could,
An ill wind kicked in, blowing no one no good.

As the dust blew away
And the night turned to day
The sun barely rose so the black turned to grey;
Dead hearts never beat
In the cold human clay
And the silence imprisoned the future at bay.

The ghost town trains
Turned to mist in the brains,
Of vagabond corpses and all their remains,
Their whistles fell mute
As did pistons and chains,
Of ghost town trains, the ghost town trains.

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