Stars and Cogwheels

Steam Train

Sometimes thoughts assail me, my words bombarded by their bombfilled anchors that seem to drag my delicate framework down no matter what I say.
As if my mind was a railroad bridge over a cavern, made of thin wood by clumsy fingers.
Fingers rebuilding the already unstable materials, they could fail, sending the structure tumbling down. Or the fingers succeed and when a steam train worthy of George Stephenson himself comes speeding through it tumbles anyway, in a brilliant crash of sparks and soundless echoes, it crashs.
My mind.
A fragile thing.
Despite all efforts, to strengthen its skeletal design.