Work Text:
What to do with a man
Who smolders and thrives in this land
Of harsh soap and burnt hands,
Whose mind exhumes his dead clan
Just to see them again?
On the train,
You would think nothing of him.
On the train,
You would pay him no mind.
On the train,
You would wonder if the smokey wind
And his hat's burdened brim
Were brothers, of the same kind.
For he assaults your senses
With his burns and his embers,
His scar tissue the warmest coat for him.
And his ghosts that he conjures
Like hares from his hat,
And the cold phantom skin,
I wouldn't dwell upon that
Because the train is on its way to tomorrow.
Yes, the train has passed you by.
The man has departed the scene
With his sword and his scheme,
And it's a shame you never asked him why.
He only ever travels for revenge, my dear,
If he was right with the world
He would be at home.
But pillars of flame ate the pillars of wood,
And the fire his family's bones.
The train has become his home now.
On the train, he can think what he likes.
On the train he finds solace from his sunny days
And his countless cold pacing nights.
Because the steam engine keeps moving on,
Grinding itself to nothing with rust
And the coal it devours is black like its soul,
The same shade it was stained by the dust.
For the engine is fueled by what it hates, my dear,
And so is the flame-hearted man.
He stitches hats from his fear and his enemies' leers
And honestly, he does what he can.
He'll do what he can.