RAILWAY TEETH
- Dark Poets Club
- Jan 30
- 1 min read
By Tim Reaper
The tracks don’t sleep.
They grind their jaw
all night,
chewing distance,
chewing names,
chewing the metal taste
of might-have-been.
I stand by the platform edge
and feel the air
turn predatory—
a cold animal
with shining ribs.
The rails hum
their familiar hunger,
electric and patient,
like a dog
trained on silence.
In my pocket,
my phone is a dead eye,
your messages
a museum of almosts.
I imagine the train
arriving with its mouth open,
headlights like saints
with no mercy left,
and I,
so easy to swallow—
a soft, human error
in the timetable.