Night train's mournful whistle
Ate into my heart
Hypnotized me
No, tortured me
As I remembered you
You were mine once, long ago
Your teasing flesh
Slaking our lust
Where were our brains?
Just like headless chickens
I knew you would leave me
Out of gimmicks
Liquor ran out
Uniform no draw
The machine had clicked stop
So where do I go from here?
Where's the lotion?
Where's the balm?
Just that whistle
As I remember you
Image from www.astronomerbilal.wordpress.com
What's gone is gone...how horrible that feels...how the stars and train fall from the sky and we are left cold and shivering...but at least there are memories
ReplyDeleteThat second stanza is so powerful and true.
ReplyDeleteSometimes memories are better than the real thing. Granted not often, but sometimes.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed!
ReplyDeletehummmm…..funny what brings on memories?
ReplyDeleteOoooh love the sound of this whistle echoing after the poem is read...
ReplyDeleteBrains and lust don't co-exist too successfully, do they? Ha! Loved it!
ReplyDeleteWhirling with Alberto
That train whistle really is symbolic of missing, I think. It is good, yet hard, to remember.
ReplyDeleteI'm not having much luck posting comments today ... I'll try again. That whistle has a lot to answer for. :D
ReplyDeleteLovely, Oldegg! Our lives' learned lessons....but do you really sorry for those experiences?
ReplyDeleteSo true, that blasted whistle is mournful. You have to stop what you doing and just listen it. Knowing it does bring memories forward and you have to deal with it.
ReplyDeleteYour poem had me humming B.J. Thomas' version of "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." Haven't thought of that in years. Thank you,
ReplyDeleteElizabeth
I love the "Where were our brains?" line, and also the last two.
ReplyDeleteYou surely are the master of soulful reminiscence. Delightful - as always!
ReplyDeleteExcellent poem and great art to go with...a mournful nostalgic all over feel.
ReplyDeletehttp://whenthepenbleeds.blogspot.ca/2014/10/when-when.html
Wow, that torturous sound is very vivid. And the chaotic image of headless chickens, wild! I love the cold, haunting end. Bravo!!
ReplyDeleteThere are all kinds of leaving, and they don't all require a train trip. I like the nostalgia of the train, though. Oddly, I've lived most of my life within the range of a train whistle.
ReplyDeleteLovely ... reminds me of a sond I once heard long ago ... a poem to read over and over again..
ReplyDelete