Fire ran horrified
from its ashes.

In the afterglow,
cinematic shadows fled

from flesh and blood.
Scars appeared,

followed years later
by their wounds.

Blinks of red
dinged relentlessly,

but there was
nowhere to stop

for the train
pulling its wreckage.

They were nearing the end of their story.
The fire was dying, like the fire in the story.
Each page turned was torn and fed
to flames, until word by word the book
burned down to an unmade bed of ash.
Wet kindling...

I will tell you why she rarely ventured from her house. 
It happened like this:

One day she took the train to Boston,
made her way to the darkened room,
put her name down in cursive script
and waited her turn. 

When they read her name...

                                             I feel you
                               ...