Reflections Of A Personal Trainwreck

Last in my poetic series, ‘Reflections’ is a short exposé and poem on personal tragedy and rebirth.

Adam Eyves
2 min readAug 30, 2021


Train wreck near Pendleton, Oregon, 1907. Northwest Digital Heritage

Years ago, tragedy befell an innocent like a string breaking on a puppeteer's handle. I am the puppet.

Uncertainty. Confusion. Fear. Wreckage.

The splintered mess, the carnage of my human soul, is the result. There is no undoing what is done.

But now? Where is my beacon of light in the stormy night? Where is my rock above the raging floods I can secure a foothold? Can I again be conceived through my mother’s womb? I am as helpless as an infant.

Rebirth is here, tapped from above, an innerspring of joy returns, a new sunrise bringing clarity through sleep-filled eyes.

I rub them awake and embrace a fresh day, the first of my future, and I retake my first steps. One at a time.

Reflections Of A Personal Trainwreck

I don’t know where the hell I am.
I mean, I know where I thought I was headed,
but somewhere along the line,
I jumped the tracks and crashed,
leaving me an unrecognizable heap of
twisted steel and splintered wood.

And from the smoldering wreckage,
where there used to be black and white,
and shades of gray,
there is now the color red.
But I have never liked the color red.

Blood has stained my hands,
collecting deep into the grooves
and wrinkles of my skin,
and it doesn’t wash off.
I see it under my fingernails,
and I scrape at it until it mingles
with the blood of my raw flesh.

As I lay wounded and helpless,
I long for the grays of what was familiar,
and wish to go back.
Grays hurt more vaguely.
Those wounds I can suffer.
But not the color red.



Adam Eyves

Writer, editor, storyteller, sailor, and coffee drinker. I think, I question, I imagine. I am a philosopher at heart, and a connoisseur of all good things.