Little Red Lies


I grew up by a railway track

And often little me was woken up by primal tension

as the power of the brakes reined in

the weight behind the engine.

Surprising then to find out, as I grew to venture past the fence

That scream and grind

adrenaline  beyond my ken to handle

wide eyed in my bed at night;

depended on a very small red light.

My dad said

“Driver’s gotta to see the light, to make it home intact.”

Despite the thrill of riding the momentum

or dreaming, drunk, distracted

by the gleam allure of onward tracks

or dulled out, too familiar with the sight

‘The driver’s gotta to see that red light every time and pull the engine back’.

Then later on I learned that sophisticated railways

can compensate for human frailty

Or override a will for immolation.

I hear a higher power comes to save the day

with scream of brakes on auto slam; the driver wakes.

So if I seem a little distant, dear, these days

It’s ‘cause a silent screaming

in my cells, a gripping  tension is

demanding my attention.

Despite how much I want to just dissolve into your eyes

The brakes are sliding on.

So many small red lies,

how easily you tell them,

and I’m alarmed how carelessly

you put me in complicity.

And if I daily pray to higher forces, as I do,

I have to waken when they try to save me.

And I can cry or sigh or

wish the journey had gone different.

But it didn’t.

And woken in my adult bed, the primal forces raging:

the magnetism of your midnight skin

against my indignation.

I must choose another destination,

and I don’t think you’ll mind,

it seems you’re fine to glide on your own rails.

And I’ll remind myself; to you, be always kind.

I loved you once,  without a reservation.

But it’s really not your train,

if it don’t stop at your station.


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