Slithering through the night,

The creature speeds ahead.

Always such a grand sight,

From its tail up to its head.

The subterranean heartbeat,

Which keeps the city alive.

Is only made complete,

As long as the serpent survives.

The jungle of concrete,

Is the reptile’s home.

Sometimes hiding beneath the street,

Or not—the snake is free to roam.

The masses depend on it,

For day-to-day travels.

The animal leads the transit,

Sliding along the track’s ravels.

Never allowed to rest,

The being is always awake.

Greeting the lost, the weary, the stressed,

Comforting those who’s tired feet ache.

Most capitalize on its power,

Using it as a service.

The basilisk eagerly devours,

Yet no one seems to be nervous.

New Yorkers harmonize with the snake,

Its part is too crucial to be obscured.

Mutually, it’s a “give and take”,

The snake survives as the city matures.

But all through this,

The serpent is unfading.

It revels in bliss,

Always accepted, never degrading.

And so New York lives on,

While the train’s jaws cling to the track.

It rides past the stations—soon gone,

Moving forward and not looking back.