Sometimes, the final transport bus,
feels surreal. Its light- shimmering, yet placid-
fills the vessel up like an empty milk bottle.
I wonder how the morning bus turned up this way,
dejected and used, like the broken scaffoldings
on the main street building. The street lamps luminate
the hollow now, its skeleton not white but neon-steamed
in colour, welcoming the foreign wind as a tired baron.
With doors opened up, parallel to a romantic’s heart,
it anticipates a shapeless lover,
that never comes.
Inside, you can hear the silence cry.
As those strap hangers tease each other, flatteringly,
the shrill of the sudden break, interrupts my delirium.
For that pacifying dream I had on these dead-still nights,
I can still sense its restlessness. With teary head-lights
it then waits to bid goodbye to its final passenger.
But as you stride down the street, all you can hear
the mystic hymn of vacant seats,
bemoaning about their sorrows,
and loneliness.
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