In the Blur of motion passing by,
Just me and my thoughts, I pray not cry.
All alone amongst a mass of others,
While the rain covered windows expose my bothers.
The talking, chatting and screaming alike,
Are all but a white noise, the background to my own world.
Against every bump the wheels strike,
From my train of thought, I am hurled.
On each trip I find the time,
To think alone, to find my next rhyme.
Until the moment each trip ends,
When the bus finally rounds the bend,
Every day I come back again.
Time will tell my last stop, but who can say when?