The Train That Never Came

The Train That Never Came

I stood upon the platform’s edge,

The clock refused to move its hands,

The air was thick with ghosts of steam,

And whispers carried through the stands.

They said the train had left long ago,

Yet still I heard the distant hum,

A song of iron, smoke, and grief,

That told me something else would come.

A woman sat with eyes of glass,

Her ticket crumpled in her palm,

She said, “I’ve waited fifty years,

For someone lost to time’s cruel calm.”

The benches creaked beneath the dust,

The lamps burned low, the shadows deep,

And still we waited, side by side,

For something neither meant to keep.

When dawn arrived, the mist rolled in,

The tracks began to softly glow,

I swear I saw that phantom train,

Through morning’s pale and silver snow.

It thundered past without a sound,

And in its wake, she disappeared,

Her ticket drifted to the ground,

And silence claimed what both revered.

Now still I stand when nights grow long,

And listen for that mournful chime,

The train that never truly left,

Just waits for those it owes to time.