a low, lonesome sound.

March 7, 2012

There’s a whistle.
Wind rustles the dried wake of foliage remaining from warmer, more prosperous days. Brighter days. The moors would moan with the sound, if it were 100 years earlier – but it isn’t, and those cobbled buildings have long since sold their souls and become ruins run dry for profit. Human nature has not much changed. Value comes not in bushels of ballastones or bottled ounces, but those are tangible things. One could not put their hands around a promise, not even a century ago. Even so. If not in 100, certainly it has not changed in the last year which was heavy enough to cripple the strongest, most steadfast men, let alone a single, bleeding-hearted girl.
Then a clacking.
Rhythmic thrumming pulses the evening at a distance – a low, lonesome sound, close enough to ache but far enough to not be reached. Box cars beat behind withered ever greens living in a perpetual limbo between a procrastinating winter and a never-ending autumn. Time loses its own faculty and function here, being only an extension of the tracks. A man-made element. A retired governor from shorter, more focused days. Meaningful days. Even the railroad ties may groan wearily at dusk for the notion of another day departed, if it were 100 years earlier – but it isn’t. Even so. If it were, that train may have a purpose – but it doesn’t.
There’s only a whistle.

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6 Responses to “a low, lonesome sound.”

  1. Tincup said

    Wonderful. My oldest brother works like a dog for a big railroad. Every time I see the trains or hear them bang together…I feel a sense of loneliness and sorrow for my brother and the billions of souls that sell out their lives.

  2. Tincup said

    I could write a poem or a short piece on why…but it would be more meaningful coming from you as you find it more lonely than the sound of a car driving by (my idea of a lonely sound).

say something to me.

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