by Walter Weinschenk
In my dying hour, I fell into a dream
And heard a voice that
Spoke to me in music sound
And each respective sound resounded
Through my mind like words:
Cello crescendo lamentation,
Rising French horn crying,
Tympanic heartbeat through my skin,
Stutter breathing saxophone, sympathy
In dulcet tone, too early to leave,
Too late to die; bended note
Like long regret; oboe prayer arpeggio.
I understood those
Music words and,
In my dying hour,
I breathed a final breath
And as I breathed
The voice told me
That a train would come
To take me to the fields of death,
A place to rest for the rest of time
And just as I heard those words
I found myself alive again
(or so it seemed),
Standing on a platform,
Waiting for a train.
I stood as straight
As a dangling chain,
Comfortable, resigned;
Harp string hair,
Hanging arms like
Trombone slides,
No thought, no pain,
Open eyed alert and peering,
Staring at the track in front
And all the track in back;
Roving eyes like searchlights
Up and down those rails,
Keen to see what might be coming
(Nothing at the time);
Nothing to do but stand upon
A spot of stone
Beneath my feet
And breathe and wait
And breathe again.
I stood upon that platform
Waiting for a train
And, in time, the voice
In tempered cornet tone
Sang these words to me:
“It rides on silver wheels,
The rods are made of gold,
Its headlight casts a blinding light,
It rolls like thunder through the night.”
But in all the time I’ve waited,
A train has never come
And I wonder if it ever will
Or even if it runs:
Those rails were once connected,
Gleaming silver beams
Set end to end, perfectly aligned,
Rising through the air toward heaven,
Conceived by God, perhaps,
In Creation’s aftermath;
But now those rails lie in disarray,
Strewn haphazard on the ground,
Tarnished green and grey, like tin:
They sink in the clay
Of a railroad bed
That once was made of stone.
Are you waiting for a train?
Did you just arrive?
I have waited ever since
Those ancient rails were laid
And I am waiting still;
Today I see the chaos
That time has wrought
In increments,
And a train can’t run
On broken track
Regardless of its speed or size;
Hope is simply not enough
To drive a train
Through countless miles
Of rutted ground
And the long, inconstant,
Cruel abyss.
This is a sorry epoch,
An age of constant waning
When perfect things collapse
And decompose,
Quite unlike the days of old
When prayer and piety
Fueled furnaces
In which holy rails
Were forged;
The strength that flowed
Through ancient arms
Was long ago consumed
And no one today
Is strong enough
To wield a hammer
High toward heaven,
Bring it down
Upon the gilded spike
And drive it through the ground,
And even a person who had the strength
Would lack the motivation.
Are you waiting for a train?
In this, my dying hour,
I will leave you here:
It is late and I am lost
In this bitter, brittle night;
I think I see the distant point
At which those ancient rails converge
And I will walk in that direction,
Forever if I must,
And if I hear those rolling wheels,
I will sing into the night,
A symphony of song
Comprised of music words,
A song for all humanity,
Staccato notes like labored breath;
I sing as I crawl
Through the valley of death;
Long chromatic moan,
Melodic sorrow all my own.
Walter Weinschenk
Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose. Walter’s writing has appeared in a number of literary publications including the Carolina Quarterly, Lunch Ticket (Amuse-Bouche), Cathexis Northwest Press, Beyond Words, The Raw Art Review and others. His work is due to appear in forthcoming issues of The Banyan Review, Lighthouse Weekly, Sand Hills Literary Magazine and other publications. Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D. C.
