Everyday is a journey, and the journey itself was home

A poem from the point of view of a train

Concrete blocks on concrete floors

Steel grey numbers, deadlocked doors

Windows made of frosted glass

Deadened lights as time has passed 

Constant sound of passing cars

Minds in boxes, hearts afar 

Schedules set our every day 

In hopes to waste the world away 

Nothings forward, nothings back

Home is down a different track

I am here, so i'll remain

An empty track, a broken train