A Mail Train, Mojave Desert, and a Pocket Full of Water

Splitting the desert land as we thunder westward uncontrollably into the sunset
Gradual low grades are spat out like pebbles
The floor is smooth and fluent, the slack is tight and soft
This pig train has not a destination,
but a non stop endeavor of rocketing us over the next pass
Thirst has long since passed, and our lips turned dry begin to crack
Thoughts of dehydration were left countless miles ago
Nothing can intercept our desires to fucking rampage over
these humps appointed as mountains.

Cajon is now gone, like a forgotten dream
Refueled with fresh breaths of diesel exhaust
Re-sparked by the spotlights of the gum shoes
No one, Fucking No One can take this evening of
lightning fast thirty six inch steel wheels,
turned red by attempts to turn back
The brakes are now forever gone
All that is left is the coast towards that burning orange glow,
now half descended.