Desolation Station


They come–the tattered,

the wretched, the battered–

To wait by the tracks in the station.


But the train’s not been here

in a number of years,

since sorrow became the only oblation.


With liquor and song

they forget how they long

for the days when their lives seemed so golden,


and oh how they miss,

as they reminisce,

the strength that used to embolden.


They’ve been here before

to knock at the door

of the station attendant’s headquarters,


to hear it be said,

“We don’t take the dead.

It bothers the rest of our boarders.”


Still here they sit,

sharing a hit

from a bottle of liquid sensation,


and as they fall

the wine hits the wall,

offered in tainted libation.


God’s not been allowed

to relieve the fouled

so He waits in the shadows in sorrow,


and He stands at the door

of the station whose floor

is littered with the dead of tomorrow.


They’ll always remain

among the self-slain

as they resist Him with blind dedication,


For Lucifer taunts,

the fallen he haunts,

in his Kingdom of black desolation.


©2007 Sharon Gerlach

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