Post Trolley Problem

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A train’s rushing forward, and I'm on the track.
It's moving quite quickly. No time to react!
Eyes closed, I listened to a chorus of five
screaming, crying mercy—it stops… I'm alive?
Too soon it was over, ‘twas done in a flash.
I lie stained by blood without even a lash.
A bystander had stood and watched the whole thing.
In the ground was a lever that one could fling,
divert the train onto an alternate path.
He's in the news daily, fighting public wrath.
“Murderer!” cried the crowd against the poor bloke.
“I didn’t kill them!” he wept, his voice a croak.
“Five for one life—that’s a bad deal,” so they claim.
I myself had risen to dubious fame.
“It should have been you,” they hiss along sidewalks.
I’ve been invited on shows, podcasts, TedTalks.
How I got on the tracks, I haven’t a clue—
still, day by day, my heavy guilt only grew.
I can’t help but wonder: should not I be dead?
There are terrible thoughts within one’s own head.
The consequences and their double effect,
I must admit, have left me an awful wreck.
The weight of their souls is a burden to bear;
late every night, I fear I’ll drown in despair.
What would I have done in such a dilemma?
Do I possess the cognitive stamina?
In a second, the House of Creon rose and
fell again, ethics crumbling apart like sand.
Lord, forgive him: for he knows not what he’s done;
couldn’t after infinite laps ‘round the sun.