allegory of convergence
game of chicken, cosmic brinkmanship,
we are with her as she gallops,
glances off gravel-stone, air borne—
her head is raised, the rails ordained blinders,
and the steam locomotive bears down
what is it that compels convergence?
what this rebellion?
the plains stretch, the mottled sky,
they beckon, and nothing in her gait,
her mighty carriage, tells us
she can be deterred
incarnate wind, unbridled whistler,
running from who knows where
and that terra firma Titanic,
its radiant beacon, heat,
arcs across the inevitable horizon
is it desire for perfection in oblivion?
pride within compulsion?
or the very image of returning love?
horse of flesh, horse of iron,
engineers of annihilation:
destroyers, or the Creator,
have mercy on us.
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Amazing photograph