The Train from A frog is mowing my lawn

The train

Charlie was lying in bed, hearing the train pass in its steel track. Drowsing his thundering way through the wasteland gonging like a madman.

He imagined a cluster coexisting inside; all man, all bearing blacks suits and black ties. One of the older fellows stepped on a red lily.

He knew it was an ambulant funeral, like a train of death, of permanent emptiness. The track never ended in his moving guts. His mouth, disposed of all moist, carried an unpleasant taste, inviting him for a glass of water.

The train was long gone and silence ruled the world. The pine needles stabbed the vespertine wind, like the nocturnal nails of a seductive mistress in a lust chamber, nailed to the drab back of an old man.

The red petals smothered on the wooden floor. The carriage cutting the soft veil of time.

"Where are you travelling to?"

"I'm heading North, where the clock can smoothen his urging pulse"

The old man stopped and took his black jacket.

"Time is always the same."

He had a flower sticking out of the pocket of his white shirt.

"Time doesn´t care. It just happens to take us with him, as a boot crushing the shell of an innocently placed snail."

He became pale as angelic wax, resembling a feeble seraphim drawing peacefully his last breath.

"This train takes you nowhere. It is always circling around the land. It carries the forsaken souls in its orbit, attached to its endless rusty track perpetually through the daunted gauntlet. Your road has already been sketched."

The snail enjoys sliming through the grass.

Charlie enjoys his rest.

The train snakes on through the wasteland forever.

There are two flowers in motion.

One of them is red.