The Train after Rush Hour

When life and space seem empty, hope and renewal happen.

🌌🚉🌌

Twilight dawns, the platform stands—
Empty.
Even the tiles breathe slow.
The schedule board blinks, an eye refusing to close.
A sweet wrapper’s slow dance in the draft,
A vending machine’s guttural hum.
Soft footsteps in the distance, an unwanted memory.

🌫️✨🌫️

Half-drunk coffee, newspapers read.
A lilac scarf lingers on its arm,
Drifting in the wind.
Every object, a person in haste.
November’s platform—in darkness.
Unlit.

🌧️🚉🌧️

My steps slow with the train’s chug—
Her missed graduation.
Mama, in bed, unseen.
His violin recital.
Each memory station a reminder,
A rest stop.

🍂🕰️🍂

The station alit, quiet.
The empty platform serves—
To rebuild.
Renew.
Old memories vague—
Yet a part
Of each turnstile.

🌙🚦🌙

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.