The steam train is
rotten and static, its wheels are no longer visible, and much of the front
section is half-buried into a sandy mound of slag. The smoke box sits sealed
forever, and the coupler, too, is lost to the sands. I stand staring at the
façade on the front of the train, near where the slag begins to rise, waiting
as it silently slides into the supernal. The ground itself is pulling it
downwards. Running my fingers along the Martian tapestry, I feel the craters of
the once-shining black metal scream out for repair. On the mottled steel shell,
where parched crimson rivers bubble, the entire exterior looked like a
beautiful underwater husk; saprophilous in nature, it begged the question as to
whether or not it was stationary or sinking into the titanic, dusty realm
beneath.
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