The Ebon Express

The whistle's sigh, a ghost through frosted air,

On rusted rails, where shadows softly creep.

The last train waits, a silent, dark despair,

For souls who've lost the path they meant to keep.

No platform bustle, just the wind's low moan,

A single lamp, a fading, weary gleam.

Through spectral fields, where memory resides,

It glides along, a whisper in the night.

Past phantom towns, where time no longer hides,

But stretches thin, beyond the fading light.

The windows gleam with faces, pale and deep,

Reflecting stars, or fears they hold so dear.

Each passenger, a story left untold,

A dream dissolved, a purpose set adrift.

Some gaze ahead, brave, stoic, strong, and bold,

While others cling to sorrows, a bitter gift.

No tickets checked, no destination named,

Just forward motion, where all maps dissolve.

The tracks unwind, into the velvet dark,

A tapestry of void, serene and vast.

Beyond the moon, beyond the faintest spark,

Where future's breath is swallowed by the past.

A tranquil peace, a quiet, deep release,

From burdens carried, heavy on the soul.

And as it fades, a promise in the void,

That nowhere holds a freedom, pure and free.

A journey's end, by fate or choice employed,

To find oneself in vast eternity.

The last train whispers, "Rest, your wanderings cease,"

And melts into the cosmic, boundless whole.