The Quiet Companion

The train is crying...gliding through the town
as if it's in a cloud.
It's hard to notice, after such a prolonged silence
That still it isn't speaking from its mind.

The train is crying...one thinks of all the tears
one cannot cry
—For all the pain that one has caused and never known,
And how this train must truly be a friend.

The train is crying...as if it is exhaling
from the sky.
The glass receives and shapes the flow the same as you or I.
It is a finer feeling, a bravery in place of mere transcending.

The train is crying...but now
it's so well hidden
That one could almost swear it was the rain.
What lies beneath it? Behind my desperation for the real?