Leaving The Station

The train departs, towards its destination mapped by the path paved out before it. Only those aboard are conscious of where its heading, but unable to alter its course. The tracks built by those that came before it, bolted down unable to move, strangled by the train as it rests. It’s wheels begin to spin and the axels roll as it slowly trudges away. Puff, puff, puff as smoke floats from it’s chimney. White clouds drift up, catching the streams of air, carrying it higher to the atmosphere. It slowly chugs down the Manchester steel, carrying the adventurous or conventional cargo travelling to their required destination. No one speaks unless spoken to and no one walks unless they depart. The coffee-coloured, umber and tattered train reaches its only divergence. The path determined by the driver. It follows the easier and efficient path, through the meadows and between the trees, ensnared by the canopy. Parallel to the highway, as cars stare at the elongated machinery, envious of it’s capacity, but boastful of their freedom. The train journeys down it’s predetermined route, unbothered by it’s glaring subordinates. It pushes on with birds overhead, the shadows creating a collage of dark beauty encumbering it’s movement as it glides along the tracks, like the seagulls. It, still is as light as a feather, travelling to it’s end with no hindrance upon it as it becomes closer to the station. A small rock catches under a wheel, then the once majestic train stalls as the wheels brake and sprout sparks, germinating the steel with flashes and grind to halt, too far from its goal, stranded and helpless. Was it the path? Was it the driver? Or simply the unforeseen stone that ceased its movement?