The Train That Never Lied

She comes each morning, a quiet hymn,

At 6:04 — never early, never dim.

She doesn’t sigh, she doesn’t dream,

Just glides on rails, a silvery stream.

The Train — oh yes — she holds her vow,

Unmoved by lust, untouched by "how".

She hums through dawn, through dusk, through storm,

In sun and soot, she keeps her form.

She does not flirt with chance or fate,

She neither hopes, nor hesitates.

And while the world forgets to pray,

She whistles firm and finds her way.

But man — ah! — the wandering saint,

He scrawls his goals in fading paint.

He loves today, then lies tonight,

He weeps at noon, makes war by night.

He builds his gods from crumbling dust,

Bows to his gold, yet preaches trust.

He prays for love, then leaves by dawn,

He sings of peace with armor on.

He sets his clocks but rarely shows,

He makes a pact — then quickly goes.

He holds the wine, but drinks deceit,

He kisses truth with poisoned cheek.

The Train — she mocks him, not with spite,

But with her rhythm, pure and right.

No heart to break, no oath to bend,

Just purpose clear, from end to end.

She doesn’t write a tragic tale,

She doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t fail.

Yet in her frame of bolts and steel,

There lies a soul we strive to feel.

Oh irony! That iron knows

The way more true than men of prose.

That gears and steam, with cold design,

Surpass the pulse of yours and mine.

You call her soulless, void of grace,

Yet she, not you, stays in her place.

She keeps her word — through frost or flame,

While man forgets even his name.

We sketch our dreams on fogged glass panes,

Then blame the world for sudden rains.

We swear we’ll change, then change our mind,

We search for truth we never find.

We are the gods of flesh and flaw,

The makers of unspoken law.

We write our names in heaven’s light,

Then trade it all for passing night.

Yet still — somehow — the Train forgives,

In every stop, she still believes.

She does not wait for hearts to mend,

But still she welcomes foe and friend.

So here’s to her — the silent queen,

Of ordered steps and in-between.

She’s but a servant, nothing more,

Yet teaches what we long ignored:

That life is not just rush and race,

But truth in duty, grace in place.

That love is more than fleeting fire,

But timing, toil, and tuned desire.

The Train, my friend, will never lie,

Though she has no tears, nor questions why.

But humans? Ah, we’ve learned to fake

The whistle, but not the path we take.

We boast of stars, then sell the night.

We claim to lead, but fear the right.

We seek a God to make us whole,

While stalling every scheduled soul.

Still — hope remains. The Train still runs.

We board her late, we miss her tons.

But she returns, with faithful grace,

To teach us time, and truth, and place.

She doesn’t preach, she doesn’t plead —

She merely moves — and meets the need.

While we, with hearts like paper blown,

Must learn from her — and find our own.

Let us become the train — not cold, but clear;

Not perfect, but present.

Not hollow, but honest.

Always on time — in love, in duty, in truth.

(Thanks for reading!)