By: Arc
Level: 2
(4 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)
Loading...
A contour made on a glass;
By my face pressed against it;
The glass sheet, the pane;
Eyes twitching at the scenes.
The bus speeds;
My mind sleeps;
The other passengers oblivious;
Where the hell are we going?
My ear captures the sounds;
Some say the bus would make three stops;
Some say the bus would make two stops;
Some say the bus would never stop.
Hell;
Purgatory;
Heaven or reincarnation;
Don’t care, drive me through it;
Whatever the ride is for.
