The bus eats the miles as it goes;

The cities taste of burnt oatmeal and it pauses only momentarily

to spit out the specks caught in its teeth.


The life of a speck is short and violent.

They sit in silence, waiting for their time to be

propelled into the cold world.  Wherever they end up,

a trail of half-whispered promises follows in their wake.

Exhaust from the bus muddles this trail,

and they cannot find their way home.

Share your thoughts

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s