Runawaytrain No.2

Poem By gordon coombes

It’s the price of fame
you’re on a runaway train-

love is just a game
time spent on a runaway train-

you’re driving down a mountain
on switch-back roads your brakes are failing
for love or hate or fame
still you’re on a runaway train-

you down a few beers
smoke a little weed
then pop a few pills
it’s a deadly mix
but you’re on a runaway train-

you haven’t got a clue
all pissed off & nowhere to go
give your self a break
cut yourself some slack
you can fake it & make it
take a little holiday from it all
get away find some serenity
if you could you would so you say
but you’re on a runaway train-


sometimes there is no escape
all our training & sophistication
all our years of sacrifice
the rich the ambitious the scholar
poets philosophers the ignorant
the lazy the stupid the crazy ones
the artist the accountant the bureaucrat
the teacher the priest & the monk
the prostitute the homeless
kings emperors & the pharaohs
all wait in judgement
all are found wanting
all receive the death penalty
on this runaway train -


on this runaway train
sometimes the game is lost before you begin
everything just slides into place
sometimes there’s a glitch
a pause in the programming
when the choice becomes real
when what you do counts
being sleep-walkers such opprtunities pass us by-

too often we are lost
as if in an undertow
the current too swift
it carries us away-

the world crowds in on us
the words & images are too much
too much pain all around us
not able to rest
not able to pause to take a breath
to collect our thoughts
to take a step back
trapped on a runaway train-

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