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It’s a long ride to love,
I’m not sure it ever ends,
The stations blur by, disappearing as fast they came,
Each one separate, and desperate, in their aims,
And they are desolate, all the same.
Some stations glow a bright stoplight red,
Others are as black as an oil train,
Others radiate a dazzling lilac light,
that completely commands my pain,
But they are desolate, all the same.
I’ve gotten off at all these stations,
Some more than I should,
I’ve stood at the crack,
With bated breath,
Shivering,
Itching,
As the iron doors scream open,
A gateway to futures I cannot tame,
And they are desolate, all the same.
The light dances through the double-paned window,
Projecting evidence of life onto a callous concrete landscape,
And I look for it.
But the future sprouts out of the Earth it maims,
And it is desolate, all the same.
As the train slows down I hear it,
Deep down, I know I fear it,
That lonesome, loathsome, mournful song, drifting through my soul,
The warmth I seek, lies with the singer
or so I hope,
There’s no going faster than fate’s lazy lope.