The train is his prison <br /> metal grey funnel passengers <br />contend for seats and dignity <br />Alpha males, pole mountaineers <br /> bitches, drunks and criminals <br /> addicts to purchasing and gain. <br />Canines put down, the dogs devoured <br /> by those who learn to sit at heel <br /> show up on time, scramble aboard <br />present their tags at crack of dawn. <br /> <br />The train is his asylum <br /> madmen perform, plastic wires <br />waving like tentacles from their ears <br />rock to the disembodied voice <br /> calling on Boss and Babe and Spouse <br /> hands by their toy machines, the keys <br />proudly caressed, his body tamed <br /> by power, all of life squeezed out. <br />Sliding and shuddering to rest <br /> tormented, bound by claws and pain. <br /> <br />The train feeds daily on his soul <br /> disgorging him, restored and whole <br /> with brothers less than strangers, into <br />fields of darkness underground. <br /> The train his only freedom now <br /> riding on a plain of fear, <br /> stealing the fire, shielded from flame <br /> by cells of anonymity. <br />Beyond the morning intimates <br /> of final rescue and escape.<br /><br />Frank Bana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prometheus-at-dawn/
