The evening train

The evening train, breathless, reaches its destination,

The station, bleak and empty, resembles the soul of a dead poet,

He drinks the unimaginative cup of tea until all that’s left is the glass, humiliating him with his own reflection,

The road ahead is fearful, yet hopeful.

The passengers, sound asleep, still glow under the fluorescent lights above them,

The towns outside, pass by his eyes in a brief second, reminiscent of his entire existence succumbing to a single moment of clarity,

His thoughts still clinging to the ultimate battle of life and death, and during all this torture, all he can think about is,

The aisle that still illuminates.

The sun shines, majestically imposing its rays of hope,

The others wake up, still glowing but under a different light, looking on to the same window, hopeful of the road ahead,

The towns that passed by so fast, begin to slow down, the heart begins to feel warm again, the rebirth of a nation.

Until the sun sets again, and the man stares onto the road, again darker and unfaithful, revisiting the endless and disdain cycle of life again.