The train rattles hard
As it lurches forward,
Everyone around her
Responds,
In one way or the other,
But she sits there,
In her seat by the window,
The scenes outside,
Not particularly captivating,
Just not yet,
Her eyes seem rooted,
At a spot in the distance,
Although her stare
Is notably vacant.

There is something about her,
About the way she has her legs,
Drawn up to her chest,
And her head resting atop
Her bent knees,
While she looks far away,
Into the distance,
Seeing, yet unseeing,
The flashing scenes –
Yes,
There’s something about her,
That reminds you,
Of how not to be,
Like a sore thumb
Sticking out.

It is evident,
That she is not
Quite alright,
And yet she seems,
Unable to fix
Whatever it is,
That is causing her
This untouchable grief,
That sits beyond a barrier,
She has carefully constructed,
In her demeanour,
And her very being.

Her eyes though tearless,
Are not fearless,
Although she keeps them
Carefully averted;
If you looked carefully,
You would notice,
How she shrinks imperceptibly,
From time to time,
And holds herself tight,
As if to protect herself,
From something
That only she can see,
Far out there
In the distance,
Amongst the flying trees.

Image Credit: Photo by Mike Wilson on StockSnap