Runaway Train

My strength is a misguided freight train, barreling along the wrong tracks. This undeniable strength, admired by so many, has the potential to steer me off course, and when fueled by anger, the train runs away.

In the tunnel I can't see the tracks. I can't see anything. I hear the steel wheels screech along the rails, grinding, twisting, burning metal, straining to remain on the path. My destination is blocked from view in the dark, black, brick tunnel. Yet, I shovel angry coals into the bowels of the beast with the steam pouring from my chimney. Sparks fly, from the wheels, from the shovel, from you and me, as the friction eats away at us.

I want to find the brake. I want to find the release. I want to stop the train.

The angry coals pour out of the coffers of the coal car. I look deep inside the car to see the seemingly endless source of the coal, as it pours out of the top and spills along the tracks behind my runaway train. Below the coal car is a pipeline from the long row of freight cars behind. Fourty-six cars, one for each year of my life, all filled with fear. Each car pumps the fear into the coal car, and magically, the fear becomes anger. Black, angry coals to fuel my passion, and fuel my destruction.

I want to find the brake. I want to find the release. I want to stop the train.

My place is in the engine, furiously shoveling angry coals into the inferno that powers my runaway train. All of that strength with which I'm so endowed steers me along on a course of sure destruction.

I want to find the brake. I want to find the release. I want to stop the train.

No lever. No brake. No release. No choice. I leap for relief.