Next Stop


Running for the bus on weathered joints,
conscious they could pop at any point -
cushioned by the warm and spongy grass,
thinking of your tired demanding heart.

 Living is a thing they cast at you -
saturated postcard greens and blues.
Suddenly a scene of war and strife,
fleeing from the cross hairs all your life.

 Swaying like the palms you check your change,
praying you're beyond the snipers' range.
As you reach the kerb the driver's eyes
never deviate. The bus rolls by.

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