| When they pulled you from the tracks
|
| Your body splayed and split
|
| Your chest flushed bright
|
| As it was in life
|
| When they pulled you from the tracks
|
| Mindful of your separate halves
|
| Your face relaxed
|
| Lying flat upon your back
|
| Your body blushed beneath such crushing weight
|
| Stolen in your awkward stage
|
| That you never would escape
|
| The same stain that decorates your chest and face
|
| With a scarlet mark of shame
|
| When you’d stutter out of place
|
| And when they pulled you from the tracks
|
| Your eyes gone milky white
|
| Strangely alive
|
| Strange
|
| This would come at the same age
|
| That your mother took his name
|
| And labor pains
|
| Would collapse her fragile frame
|
| The city lights reflected off the bay
|
| From the streets where you were raised
|
| And taught your place
|
| By those stifling younger days
|
| Now that’s all been washed away
|
| With the color from your face
|
| Tracks traced in paint
|
| From a woman raised to wait
|
| And when they pulled you from the tracks
|
| Your body splayed and split
|
| Your chest flushed bright
|
| As it was in life
|
| When they pulled you from the tracks
|
| Mindful of your separate halves
|
| Your face relaxed
|
| Lying flat upon your back |