The train is late.
We stand here, watching as the sun deserts us,
‘Goodbye. Until tomorrow,’ he says.
The sky explodes in blood and fire,
With a wink and a glimmer he is gone,
We are left alone.


With him we had a purpose.
He bathed us in his rays, made us glow,
He kept our time and lit the way,
Alimentation for our beating hearts.
But now we float adrift in the night,
The way is lost. And the train is late.

We squint into the darkness.
The tracks are hidden from our sight.
We hold our baggage in our hands and listen,
We listen for the roar of the train
That we know is coming down the tracks,
More grave in darkness than in light.

But maybe it’s not coming.
For reasons unknown our companion has gone
And left us within the clutches of the night.
We are vulnerable,
We are blind,
And we are alone.

Maybe it’s not coming because we do not matter.
What is the meaning of our existence?
We do nothing but follow the trails that others leave,
The paths that others pave.
Maybe it’s not coming because there is nothing to come for,
Though we cannot do this on our own.

We are stupid, hopeless, unwise, and incompetent.
We need the train to take us to where we are going,
We need something to guide us on our path.
We need to hear the grind of turning wheels
And the whoosh of the great dark air flying past.
We need to leave the night behind before it consumes us.

But why? Why should the train come for us at all?
What in our lives have we ever done?
What have we ever changed?
What have we ever created?
Maybe the train is not coming
Because we are meaningless.

And so we stand here like statues.
We wait for the train that is late.
The darkness drips from our shivering flesh,
It fades away and the sun returns.
Our old companion is back,
And so again we wait.
The empty track goes on and on,
And we stand here like statues,
Waiting for the train,
When it may never come.