Train set.

The light at the end of the tunnel has gone out,
and now there are only the seamless over coated
clothes of night. No surface available for a shadow
to show against, or indication that one could ever
arise inside this funeral suited place, where even
an undertaker would wear white cotton below his
neck and not this coarse uncoloured Melton cloth.

I touch my skin a little to see if it will bristle under
my fingertips, and it tells me that I am still here and
not fallen from myself on the way inside this funnel;
for I do not know any more which track I’m on, or
what road goes where, as the throat hole ahead has
choked before its time and all ways seem the same.

Behind I know begins beyond my ears, but only
when I turn, and ahead is usually gauged correctly,
but not now, or I imagine ever, as my tinder has
been dampened in the dark and no spark will take
there again or lamp lend itself for the drying;
therefore I must trawl along what buckled rails
support my gravity the best and find their inevitable
end without life’s illuminations to guide me.