Train

Light cascades from the nose
and cheeks of the old man
who faces me as the rails below click
and clatter, onwards and onwards
and onwards.

Shadows weave into his face,
they crawl into the spots from where
light just fell to the floor.
And his face becomes sadder,
with each tick of the clock
that adorns his wrinkled wrist.

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About abigailbaross

Writer and aspiring publisher
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