These Trains Won't Stop Runnin'

                                  Yield to your stern fathers in the hearth of their teachings, make daily memos in  dated calendars that collect dust upon deserted shelves, beside the black and white family tree binder. See how Aunt Rose once lived, loved and perished south of the railway line. Smoke clouds descend to the soiled earth, left permeating throughout scattered vision, of ghost and silhouettes. This wine you drink is blood of the burial, the souls that vanished amidst lost decades and faded seasons of torrid land ownership.
                                 Listen little girl, daughter, these were coal miners of centuries of which no migrant pays tribute to. The fuel, the barley, the shellfish that washed up upon ancient shorelines rests in deserted cloisters, lost decaying below unforgiving suns. Now, find time to play and tease in innocent bouquets of laughter. Truth be knowing that these vulnerabilities are forever, however your flesh is brief and instant, and these trains won't stop running for nobody, they'll persevere long past the minute beating of frail hearts in remote cemeteries.
                                 The courtyard romance leaves bad taste among native mouths of discreet ancestors that reminisce deceased couples. It ended badly as it usually does, and even if it didn't it wouldn't matter and these trains won't stop running for nobody no matter how rich, poor, content, or disconcerted. When grandfather was a boy he'd awake onto barnyard landscapes, the crow, the cock, the metal spoon misplaced among thrift store time lines. Withered monuments lose grip on portraying importance, as does your breathe escape you in the morbid folly of grief and statistics.
                                  Use your leisure wisely, don't smoke cigarettes in the eye of the storm, youth is a distant playground that unfolds exponentially in the jesters fluorescent cloak. A memory glazed the elderly woman's eyelids, as she gazed out onto foiled scenery of endless acres of vast cornfields. This is death, it is what you always wanted, it's what leaves your lips dry and stale in vacant moon lit hours. It wasn't a dream, it is the unforgiving reality that you know will find you, grasp you , carve your insides out and throw them onto the surreal cutting board of logic.