Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Ghost Train

**This is a story in a poem using one syllable words.

Far from here
in a black coal car
a sense of true
got shot and scarred.
It jumped real quick
                 
and as it flew
It struck an oak,
stout and new.

It glared back wise
with gold owl eyes.


Its heart
dripped thick
on an old black crow
that sliced his neck
with coarse cruel blows.
The crow’s shrill beak
cut nose and cheek
the blood then hissed
and hit the street.
It scowled and bared
its blood red teeth.

A street lamp blinked
It could not sleep
nor get that thief
to change his leaf.

When
his thumb
shrieked hot lead
it found its mark
trained for dead.
The blast came fast
sharp as an axe
and chopped a clock
that ticked and tocked.

I hugged the frame

and the glass
in hope,
since two
my fears would pass.

Still dazed
I traced
his ash gray face,
that shot an F
through a coach seat base.


A rock hard sneer
trapped in a frame,
this ghost
still drives
the night sick train.