The end of the line.
Or the beginning. Bringing point A
to point B and all parts South.
From an era where the rails rarely failed
and Iron Horses sailed on wings of diesel.
And steam. It was a dream of mine
to have seen those bygone days,
in which architecture was considered art and
tile, leather and chrome found a home for it.
Built up when bottoms were about to fall out,
a bout of depression to serve as a lesson
and trains were the only way to go.
My favorite art deco stands as a remembrance
and offers a chance to recapture that feeling.
Stealing dreams in the high polished gleam of the time.
But, is the end of the line always
(C) Walter J Wojtanik