She always heard the train pass
at a quarter to twelve on Sunday nights.
Her silent but booming bed time story.
The rolling wheels against
rusted metal and steel tracks
came together like a hushed Beethoven
sympathy lulling her into a deep steady sleep.
Rattling loudly came the winter desiccated leaves
outside her bedroom window.
She said they danced to the music
of the Sunday train. She often danced herself.
Every night this train came closer to her home
bringing a louder noise each time.
She wondered why from time to time
she had to see this mysterious train.
The one night she built up the courage to see
the train, there was no rolling or
booming sound. The leaves lay dormant
outside her window. She stood at the place
the tracks should be looking both ways
for the Sunday train. She stood there all night
hearing nothing but her heartbeat. The hour had
passed and so had she.
As her body fell to the ground
signaling her death, the train passed by
on to the next town.
This train means so much in this poem. It's more than just a simple train, it's life itself. Sometimes we can hear life calling us, when we're about to make a choice, or in some other critical decisions. When we hear that voice, we are in some way guided. This train, that the woman thought she heard, was the calling of life to end. The structure was briliant and the rhyming was good. Just loved it 5/5