Trains

Life is nothing.
Life is everything.
So slowly it kills us, as if it is death itself.
Purpose is a waning feeling.
Alive today, dead tomorrow.
Are plants for beauty or poison making?
Are knives for food or for our blood?
Are trains for travel or suicide?
Is life for living or only dying?
Is hope for truth or only for happiness?
Maybe life itself is a lie.
Maybe purpose is just a dream
Fading in the flames of our pain.
Are trains for travel or suicide?