The Exhibit

I'm lying on the cold metal,

Shivering. 

The stones that decorate the

Train tracks will now be

The garland on my coffin.

 

I have a piercing pain

In my head, 

My legs,

My arms, fingers, it's everywhere.

 

My favorite Christmas sweatshirt is soaked.

And I can see blood 

Running down my face.

The gore oozing from my body is 

A holy fountain on exhibit, but I am 

Afraid the coin-sized hopes

Tossed at me are

Useless.

 

The wise say that the glaring train lights

Are a warning of the impending doom

 

But maybe I am 

Blind to everything apparent.

(Is reading in between the lines a wretched

Boon? Then is every poet, cursed?)

 

The memories in my head have always 

Been too vivid to see, maybe that's why

The hot headlight bulbs also seem

Fused.

 

So, here I lay, on the tracks 

Like a glorious wreck.

 

In the fullness of time,

The trains of my thought have 

Collided.

(It was not a scenic journey

For, the lone passenger, yours truly.)

 

My biology book tells me

That excess loss of blood can

Invite death in just five minutes. 

Am I dying? Will they erect my grave

On these train tracks?