Desolation Station

by Sharon Gerlach

Image by Unknown (Do you know who holds the copyright to this image? Let us know!)

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♦

They come–the tattered,

the wretched, the battered–

To wait by the tracks in the station.

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But the train’s not been here

in a number of years,

since sorrow became the only oblation.

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With liquor and song

they forget how they long

for the days when their lives seemed so golden,

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and oh how they miss,

as they reminisce,

the strength that used to embolden.

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They’ve been here before

to knock at the door

of the station attendant’s headquarters,

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to hear it be said,

“We don’t take the dead.

It bothers the rest of our boarders.”

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Still here they sit,

sharing a hit

from a bottle of liquid sensation,

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and as they fall

the wine hits the wall,

offered in tainted libation.

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God’s not been allowed

to relieve the fouled

so He waits in the shadows in sorrow,

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and He stands at the door

of the station whose floor

is littered with the dead of tomorrow.

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They’ll always remain

among the self-slain

as they resist Him with blind dedication,

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For Lucifer taunts,

the fallen he haunts,

in his Kingdom of black desolation.