The Missed Train

The train stops for no passenger 

Even in the rain it wrestles 

against the wind, passing 

the trees, the streets, the lights 

it leaves behind as if wanting 

to be everywhere other than

this—so much like the childhood: 

of a burnt child who wrote a list

of long wish to be somewhere else 

but couldn't find courage – 

in right amount to do so, although

now that he does, there's whispers

in his ears from the darkness

that he has sheltered inside—

perhaps it's a little too late 

indeed now it is, for so much depends 

on the shoulders that must not bow

to any predicament for there's loss

to be borne not just for himself

but for the people that love him 

Not that there are too many to count

I've heard he pushes them away