There is train running through my dreams.
It is a memory, as warm and comforting
As that small, dark room I lay in,
Tied in a knot by the pink blanket with silky edges.
I still hear the train, lonely in the woods,
Rumbling its freight along the tracks down the bottom
As I struggled to sleep,
Listening to faint voices somewhere else,
Breathing in the sacred, indescribable smells of that old room with its secrets
Before I had secrets of own.