The Fugitive (Poetry)

My life is a departure board
the destinations click and turn
to some lost schedule underscored
with ruined names — those cities burned.

The platform stretches long and black
reflecting wet with rain and night
the rails below gleam coldly back
and lamps throw small dim pools of light.

The waiting room is bleak — forlorn
no travellers except for me
the floor is damp — the seats are worn
a creeping chill for company

and week-old newspapers that tell
my story in their callous style
distorting truth so headlines sell
and speculating all the while

on where I am — the missing piece
to someone’s puzzle — someone who
won’t let this persecution cease
no matter what is just or true.

And so I’ll board another train
whichever is the first to come
most towns and cities feel the same
they hide my shadow from the sun.

A string of one-way tickets link
like paperchains back to my home
I’ve been much closer than you think
and breathed into your answerphone.

But if you grieve there is no sign
you’re neither gaunt nor desolate
it seems as though you’re doing fine —
undamaged — your heart failed to break.

after all — what’s done is done
and you believe what you believe
my innocence won’t save me from
those twisted tales that liars weave.

So think of me each time you hear
the whistle of a passing train
my suitcase battered — packed with fear
I’m changing platforms in the rain.