sorry for the train delay:

would you really call it an accident

when it should really be called a tragedy;

for it was staged, meticulously,

not just a sudden push off the edge,

but a slow accumulating

of decay, the rotting of a soul

decomposing into a grave

dug with their two bare hands –

 

stop pointing fingers

not at the corpse

or the family

or, anyone.

the body is heavy enough

weighed down by years of agony

bones shackled to train tracks

and heart too weary to lift itself

or even beat again

 

the blood splatters may be easy to clean

but can you really wash away something so ugly?

can you mop away the horror,

a gruesome scene

of twisted limbs and limp frame?

guts splayed across metal like

yarn, unraveling, the past

memories; tangled

amongst thread we use

to sew our eyes shut, theirs too,

with the remaining red string,

fate severed, short of

something more

 

the media stops weaving stories altogether.

soon they blend into

a single entity, enough

to blanket the entire country;

yet is buried under, cemented

platforms and rustling wheels

 

mourning

arrives at the nearest light

when the sun rises

and the corpse lowers

into a quiet cemetery, a lot

among lots of old souls.

too tired to carry this burden

so we lay it to rest –

we cannot afford so much

pain to fill the emptiness.

 

when will we learn

to put an end to our suffocating society?

let their muffled voices rise

above the screech of

train tracks, the cacophony

of hustle and bustle;

we should never busy ourselves

with forgetting.

let go and let live

their stories, unearthed

from buried grief.

 

would you really call it an accident

when it really should be called a tragedy?

would you really call it an accident

if it was my body; laying there?

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