You walk the yellow tactile line.
The station air tastes like old brine.
You left the highway far behind.
A different kind of road to find.
Your boots are heavy, worn and grey.
The city stole the light of day.
You track the tiles in a row.
With nowhere left for you to go.
You're tracing edges on the floor.
A ghost who's knocking at the door.
The silver rails are cold and deep.
While all the tired city sleep.
The vending machine hums a song.
The midnight wait is getting long.
You smell the grease and burnt coffee.
A lonely soul, a drifting key.
You're tracing edges on the floor.
A ghost who's knocking at the door.
The silver rails are cold and deep.
While all the tired city sleep.
The clock is ticking on the wall.
The empty tunnels start to call.
No diesel engine, no wide lane.
Just the ghost of a distant train.
You remember a Georgia sky.
Where the summer hawks used to fly.
Now you're trapped in a concrete shell.
A ringing of a subway bell.
You lean your back against the stone.
A trucker standing all alone.
The wind blows through the open gate.
A heavy load, a heavy weight.
You're tracing edges on the floor.
A ghost who's knocking at the door.
The silver rails are cold and deep.
While all the tired city sleep.
The last train edge.
Just a yellow line.
The last train edge.
Now you're doing fine.
