Last Trains At the End of An Echo

Last Trains at the End of an Echo by Sy Roth The Conestoga wagons littered the wasteland with their spiny bones in search of the comfort of others clattering, grinding wheels singing an unmelodic song laments the guile of the others who screamed a gale of voluminous disregard for them and their emotions sucked the breath from their mouths unfriended them. So sudden their demise, an unwinding of beliefs and closely-held credos that peep like golden hinds from behind a lea of blustery grass and suddenly there is a no more. On either side of the mending wall a phubbing, vacuous ending subsists as a contemporary shout-out an electronic melding, a landscape of nothingness, of swollen egos and prideful, self-congratulatory accolades notwithstanding, they gather in the sheaves of like-minded souls to their bosom avowed them friends and just as carelessly discarded them without warning no cautionary tales lose themselves in their overblown egos set them adrift in a steady stream of electrons. Wave after wave of waves awaken them to their loneliness a never-ending unfriending for the somnambulists to find sleep-- And it goes on, an unbending gusher of brackish water slicing through canyons building up to a continual gathering of its waters building to crescendo of effusive outpourings of love and adoration where they ultimately meet at some shadowy terminus where the last trains wait at the end of an echo. They slavishly adhere to amassing their own kingdom like the king in his counting-house filling his coffers with beating hearts and an unlimited slew of adoration from uncolored naïfs hidden behind a curtain of bits and byte until ennui overcomes them. And they unfriend like flushed toilet tissue wearing unchanged undergarments in a quotidian dream of newly-donned silken mantels that stop briefly at the end of the cycle back to the watering holes of their non-communicative, non-essence and bid them a hollow adieu until the last one standing a last friend blows lazily in the breach and the wagons' wheels can be heard in the distance rolling toward the community of men who touch and sing and play at life.