Names on the Echo

In the station’s belly, silence spills like snow upon the iron.
The walls keep lost names, traced in dust and breath.
The tracks sleep; the echo lengthens steps of those who do not depart.
A lamp flickers, silent witness to the empty hall.
Every syllable remains stuck to the glass of the waiting room.
The names align like stars on a map that guides no one.
Time stands still, in line for a journey that does not exist.
The wall’s sigh repeats them, seekers of a place never reached.
And the echo carries voices of those who have not crossed the threshold.
Silence licks the walls with a tongue of metal.
The station remains an archive of names that never took a track.
Perhaps the journey is only this listening, in the silence that guards them.