The wailing whistle moaned through the still morning, drowning out the rhythmic humming of steel on steel.
Progress and industry passed while most rode the REM express across dreamland, bridging night and day.
Moonlight glinted off the tracks before slipping into the streaming beam chugging after the thundering reverberations.
Shaking the very foundation:
The moment slipped away,
And time turned on its wheel.
The distance and future beckoned from the horizon, where the soft light of the heavens danced atop the ocean’s surface.
The whistle signaled its approach, its mile by mile victory, and cried with despair at being ignored and slowly forgotten.
Track and train would soon rust to dust in the shadows of the love they had once received.
They would not be grieved:
Death would be less rotten,
Than to be deemed worthless.