Tracks


It's tracks cut through the piney hills,
The sleepy towns and cotton fields.

At once a mystery and commonplace,
It rumbled past with smokey trace.

The field hand watched until it passed
And wondered where it stopped at last.

His days were baking sun and aching back
And always that shiny mocking track..

Until he had no choice to go or stay.
His wanderlust would have it's way.

But his shaky fear caused him to hesitate
And he jumped for the train an instant late.

Beneath the wheels the field hand lay
And those cruel tracks took his life away.

On moonless nights the train crews swear
They see his ghostly lantern there.

Searching for that phantom freight
To finally end his restless wait.

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