Changing tracks

Remember the dazzling blue hues
of Northern England's summer sky?
How the Lake District was a pool of rain
when you hiked alongside the sheep,
but in your first-class train
with unlimited orange juice,
the lakes were a landscape painting
you couldn't help but Instagram about.

There's something about train rides;
listening to the remix of strangers
as you philosophise about sheep,
putting the dots together
as your lips curl around the words...

What if?

What if you are a train, crashing
into another platform suicide?

And so the downward spiral begins.

The most poetic pictures
are a safety blanket,
peeled away, then
nobody wants to touch you
because you're full of death.

When you walked in the rain
it wasn't the worse of all days
- at least you had him -
but then you sped ahead
in your high-class train
and derailed.

You can't forgive yourself
for turning life's art into darkness,
so you write goodbye letters in your head
and hope the mailman stops you.

Except, maybe you don't,
and that's what hurts the most.

You want to take your friends
on the happiness express,
from Glasgow to London,
Paris perchance.

But everything screeches,
and you can't bring yourself
to change tracks anymore.

21-02-2019
10:22 PM