The
evening bus is silent.
The
darkness holds our tongues.
The
landscape passes smoothly
and
is spattered sparsely by the sun.
An
hour rolls by so solemn.
The
black of night descends.
The
landscape's pricked with streetlights;
glowing
pinheads seem to never end.
Seemed
to never end I thought,
until
suddenly we arrived.
The
evening bus still silent;
just
darkness and some lives.
The
hissing door it opens.
The
other stand to leave.
But
I just sit politely;
politely
sit and breathe.
Soon
comes my turn to venture out.
I
shuffle towards the cold.
The
evening air is silent;
the
darkness chills my soul.
Tomas Bird - Pear Kindling 2017
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