Frustration sits in a moving train

Her teeth to dust,

mouth full of pretenders.

Exaggerated the time it took to grow up

And the distance between herself and her hero's graves.

In the soft pillows of her head

something swells.

A germ

serenading the synapses to fire.

A lazy thought?

A revolution?

Grammar was never a trusted friend

and words are ashes of thoughts anyways.

She needs a miracle if this poem is ever going anywhere.