The Train Station

Sun, and the biting winter wind,
harsh as disdain,
have bleached the walls and woodwork,
slowly stripping the train station
of life,

The end rarely comes
in a flash,
but slowly, one torturous flake at a time
cruelly cut from the now grey clapboards,

until like love, starved for kindness,
starved for affirmation,
all is grey, not quite dead,

but certainly,
not alive.

About this poem

Which is worse, a love exploded in a a fiery betrayal, or a slow death from starvation? I don’t know the answer.

The picture is of the abandoned train station here in West Pawlet, Vermont.

Tom