Half Poem

I found this half-finished poem among my documents.

When will we walk the mountains,

stride the plains in brisk and steady rhythm,

hum as we cross borders, break the trails,

and

And what? I will never know! My train of thought has no end station; it is a frustrating, ghostly ride, a neverending journey that simply passes station after station after station. I am a rusting machine, grinding slowly to a stop, and I have a hard time completing my