Split Sides

Ghost Station

The muteness is a mockery

Of its supposed function

As a terminus, a destination, a stopover

Of the huddled, tired masses

Coming to and from their posts and occupations

So wasted from the long hours spent

Facing the desktop or the cement mixer

They couldn't be bothered with the news or supper anymore.

The very reliance of the population

Has become its sole meaning

When the line breaks down

(Like a derailment or a lightning strike)

Its whole function ceases

And it becomes a tragic figure

Of sheer silence, a forlorn structure

That lies abandoned and ghastly.

Almost heartbreaking to look at.

What used to be a station

Of purpose and verve

Has become a station

Of lost souls and ghosts.