The Divine, Suicide, and Trains

The wind blows gentley through the trees, making a sound like rushing water

I sit on my roof

Stolen beer runs cool down my parched throat

The night is calm

Memories of my past fill my mind with a haunting melancholy

The memories fade

Light bursts out the tip of my lighter, then eventually my cigarette

I breathe deeply

The wind, the night, the memories, the cigarette

It all feels like it should mean something

The moon gives just enough light to write by

Its 1 am

The mood has been set and I can say the things I feel need to be said. Isn't it clear from the picture I've painted that the world is ending? Isn't it clear from the picture I've painted that this is all just a horrible cycle? Maybe not. But I don't know how to say this any clearer. Let me try again.

I hear the low cries of a train from my rooftop perch

Its approaching

I see it's headlights illuminating my backyard, like a beacon for the lost

Its here

I feel the rumbling, not threatening to displace me, only ruffle

Its still here

I smell the faint hint of smog mixing with the night air

Its gone

I taste the metallic taste of too many emotions

Another will come

Its been two years since the first time.I decided back then, if I were to ever do it, that'd be how. There have been attempts since but none mean as much as the first. The noises haunt me every night, mocking my failure. Or reminding me of obstacles I've overcome. I still can't figure it out though. Everytime I try not a single train comes. How did this stupid town's train schedule become an act of God?