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ant 15| A flower, wilting, before I bloom
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
A quick poem written on the bus

BusRide

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?

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