I REMEMBER WHEN I WAS A TRAIN

My days were spent sitting on rusted tracks. I hadn't moved in years.
I was a train dressed in the finest graffiti. Humans looked upon me like I was a work of art.

They vandalized me. I was covered
in colors, in layers and layers of anarchy and dreams of the hopeless.

I was scarred with streaks of rain. dandelions still grew beneath me despite the clouds of carbon dioxide. On the road, everyone is the same.

They all come and go. Faces pressed upon car windows, lifeless human beings. I can't remember how it felt like to have a destination. This was all after the hurricane.

(No one expected it. It tore up everything. And we all lost something then.)
The lights we saw was a flashlight from God. He lost something too, I think. It was too dark to see.
We were left waiting for the sun to rise.
Gray became a disease, a plague, and it made my engine want to burst.

An estimated three hundred and forty strands of horse hairs and an unbearable amount of color are spread along the page. Stroke
after stroke, glances like eyes
in search of

But we should wait for the sun to rise, shouldn't we?