How it happened

The Whistle was blown.
And there he stood.
Jack the Ripper arrived dressed as a unicorn.
Death also blew the whistle,
of both the train and Life.
The brutality of the speeding wheels
turning into vapour as they approached the end.
Leaving behind the conflict of transition
like a cloth violently tore to pieces.
Painted red and yellow and pink.
A dream that was too short,
or maybe too grand to become true.
A dream turned into a nightmare.
People were horrified, scared, shocked.
Astonished by the morbidity of it all.
Watching the railway lines,
the piercing stones fading into nothing.
He was no longer a man.
No, you couldn’t call him a man.
But a resemblance of a painting by Picasso.