Melancholy of a Midnight Train
Rumbling at the forefront, the only frail defense,
I’m concealed behind my own view of misty charcoal,
An untoward lever of a cuckold whistle,
Awaiting when the approaching cavern lures in
The ghoulish gale that confiscated my emblematic top,
Yet hoping for it, a merciful cowcatcher I never met.
A knee jerk away from certain dismemberment
I tantalize the starving flames with the stale oil
Trying to fly with the lace that binds my feet
My sooty forehead runs deposits of chugging memories
That my steamy spade so exquisitely mourns.
The congealed scarlet bears my burden
As I circle out distant lights with my solitude
I marvel at their fickle character, their teleporting flux,
This routine wanderlust is just a contract in my briefcase,
A detour from the disbelief of loneliness.
I conjecture if my flags can stop stars from falling,
There are no arms for this protector,
Just a name, in this revolving shade of red and green,
A grieving forward of retreating landscape.
We abandon the Duke’s sigil in the rush of daybreak,
There are no chairs that your shoves would shatter
Except the hollow echoes of our own sadness
That carries this band of melancholic men
On the midnight train.