The Train

The train keeps on rocking by day and by night,
With all of us trapped on its rhythmical flight.
Conversation is partially strained but polite
As we travel from station to station.
And the view’s ever changing but still there’s no sight
Of our dreaded and feared destination.

Where we are going we’re loathe to discuss,
Some people say we should have taken the bus
While others relax and ignore all the fuss
With an air of controlled resignation.
It will be in future and ever was thus
Since the first breath of human creation.

The stations are many, the going is slow,
The clock barely moves when the trav’lling is so.
Some people alight with their luggage in tow
And shudder with anticipation.
We wave at them sadly while watching them go,
And then sit on our hands in frustration.

The platforms are nameless, the signage is hexed,
No announcements are made ‘bout which station is next,
There’s no-one to call or to fax or to text
In this break in communication,
Which makes an old woman increasingly vexed
As she starts her self-beautification.

Through mountains and valleys, past gorges and streams,
Beyond the fogged window, a land of extremes,
But mostly we smile and relax in our dreams,
Ignoring the slow transformation.
And often it’s never the way that it seems
When you’re losing your orientation.