Hear the Ghost Train Whistle

All night I travel, in a dream… asleep since midnight - plus sixteen. A ghost train’s whistle, softly drawn through orange-black at cusp of dawn. The phantom locomotive chugs with each and every stroke, then crests the hill, going faster still, churning out black ash and smoke. From this smoke cloud falls a raindrop though some might disagree, say it’s called a devil’s teardrop, but knowing which is key. The truth is somehow mottled and can scarcely be explained, there’s no hand upon the throttle nor conductor on the train. Passing by a murky cornfield where it seems we’ve been deceived, witnessed by a tattered scarecrow who will never be believed. The fog hangs inauspicious, while the dark clouds tell a tale, of the shadow’s superstitious witch’s moon on endless rail…