Rusty boxcars ride rusty rails.
Their creaking movement whispers tales.
Tragedies of fields and flowers,
conquered by technology’s power.
Vines scream to reclaim
territory stolen by the train
have their necks slashed
between the wheels and the tracks.
Dissecting the night
with its yellowing light
it screams past my door
Afterthoughts whisper its name…
"Conquistador"