I am a stopped train,
tracks before me,
tracks behind.

I must have moved once.

It is too dark to see
if I’m surrounded by field or forest,
or suspended on a trestle.

Do I hear my murmuring passengers,
my conductor’s whistle—
or the whisper of the wind,
the creak of my metal bones.

My engine grows colder
as I am buried in snow.


– Ceridwen

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