The Abandoned Station

Here the shades of rust are manifold. The rails resemble velvet, thick and plush. A dark grease from the time of the last Tsar rests deep within the wood of sunken ties. The platform’s still, the station name in bold Gothic letters. No pale mothers rush their children to the last departing car with brusque farewells forever in their eyes. The car rusts at the edge. Has been there since the day the Soviets sacked the sleepy town, leaving a trail of bleeding girls and grief. The station is a graveyard. Cleanse and rinse it with your mind, and still a deep red brown keeps it behind: thorn tree and nettle leaf.