Within the passenger cabin lies awake
A masked face, stone gaze flickering
Through worn scripts; the crimson
Candle smoldering idly nearby.
Withering away in a somber kitchen
Is a hand curled around a parasol,
Spine bowed and shoulders hunched,
Covering a head of dove-white lies.
Tucked beneath the engine sits
A tinkering fellow, earmuffs on
As one trembles and huffs while
Enduring the bitter chill— in spite
Of the iron and lead still burning.
Dusting the vents is a person with
Cardboard skin, they ponder in silence
While humming and asking their neighbor
If one should bolt nails into themself.
There's another passerby at the window,
Breathing slow as they graze the glass
With steeled palms that jostle from a break
In the wheels, and their eyes cannot be seen.
Stood upon the tracks is a dozing crane,
Resting stiff as they stifle a croon with
Stained feathers fluttering in the wind,
Obscuring themself from the winter air.
Within the moonlight shed on these
Silver rails, one must truly be curious.
One must carve a path and inquire;
Can anyone here feel the cold?