“we’re at a railroad station waiting for a train that never comes in”


major disclaimer one: i take absolutely no credit for the absolutely breathtaking title. it comes from “all my sons” by arthur miller, a beautifully heart-wrenching play (i am definitely not doing it justice here but bear with my addled, largely incoherent brain) which coincidentally (or perhaps not so coincidentally) falls under the list of set texts for h2 literature for the ‘A’s.

major disclaimer two: i claim full credit for that abomination of a photograph (if you could call it one), both the actual taking of the photograph and the editing. well, the editing’s probably its only saving grace and truth be told, i can’t even take credit for something that the computer does perfectly on its own. so there. maybe credit for just the photo-taking then.

(i promise i’ll make an effort to be more verbose in my next post.)

“we’re at a railroad station waiting for a train that never comes in” 

don’t you know that

the human heart can be a sturdy little thing?

a steel railroad, steadfast in the cruel sun,

still waiting for the train to sweep the rust

(gently, oh, gently now)

off its sweat-beaten brow.

except the train does not come trundling by,

and the dust settles down with a sigh.

perhaps the sun is cruel yet kind,

kinder than the weight of a heavy absence,

made none the better with time.

final major disclaimer: i might have cast unfair aspersions on the train, seeing that it did, indeed, arrive.

and yet, we’re all still at a railroad station somewhere, waiting for that train, aren’t we, the train that never comes in?


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