Time is a train that never slows,
its wheels kiss tracks we cannot see,
leaving behind only smoke, faint memories.
Each moment asks us to choose:
Who will you be today,
in this infinite string of ticking seconds?
The man who sits quietly at the window,
or the child pressing face to the cold glass?
Some lives hover, margarine melted weak,
spread thin across forgotten morning bread.
But aren’t we more—don’t we crave more—
than storerooms full of unlit lamps?
Perhaps tonight, when the stars blink tired,
we will peel off our plaster masks.
We will meet our own reflections unafraid,
speak aloud the names we’ve buried deep.
Seconds spin forward; the train keeps running.
Let us be passengers who dare to sing,
who carve laughter into the wood of the seats,
leaving echoes long after we are gone.