Iron Buffalo

I am so SICK of this poem. I don't even know if the last few stanzas work. Arrrrgh. Forget this noise; I'm done with it.

But here it is anyways.


Ghosts have followed you home
from the right side of the tracks, little girl;
look behind you out of the corner of your eye.
These men and women slipped from rails
onto a gravel-scattered ground;
they said goodbye years before they died.

Little girl, you’re just the same,
nobody seems to know your name
you tell the guidance counselor you’re fine.
Little girl, I ought to say
that things won’t always be this way—
but what if you can’t leave the past behind?

You walk alone past rusting trains,
their whistle only in your head, little girl;
that lowing helped you sleep at night.
Small wonder that these drifting ghosts
cling to your tired and limping heels;
they have that same uneasy mind.

Little girl, you need to wander,
you can’t stay here any longer—
soon you’ll run out of reasons to fight.
Little girl, your face is fading,
but you keep on masquerading;
you’re lost and gone while still alive.

Because no matter how you hope,
your daddy won’t die until you leave, little girl;
no-one will ever answer your prayers on time.
The ghosts know how easy it is to lose
when you insist on staying in last place;
if you don’t go, someday you’ll say goodbye.