A young child waits alone in the dark
His duvet pulled up to his chin
He waits for his goodnight kiss
But his mother forgot about him.
He can hear her voice, drifting upstairs
She giggles, gossips, drinks tea
And while her son waits alone in the dark
She laughs, obliviously
While upstairs her son is alone in the dark
Thinking, “She doesn’t love me.”
The train station is as brightly lit up as a shop display and running like clockwork. An announcement drifts across the platforms and, minuites later, a trains sweeps in and hisses to a halt. Everything is running perfectly.
But there isn’t a soul there.
The empty trains arrive and the exausted doors wheeze open then stand, for minuites on end, waiting for passengers that will never climb on. A rusty ‘way out’ sign creaks very slowly back and forth. The vending machines stand like sentry guards, their tired rows of unwanted chocolates illuminated for no-one to see. A disembodied voice echoes forlornly in the silence, reminding passengers not to leave their baggage unattended. Litter scrapes across the concrete, swirling in mini cyclones, propelled by wind from a passing train; a train with row upon row of empty seats.
It’s a ghost town, with trains full of nothing but air.