Poetry

The Bus Park

An anticipated journey bought with a ticket of hope…
Faces wearing lines of worry; others with imageries of their destinations sewn as pockets of smiles on their faces.

As for me, the smell of liquid supply retches my internals to a state of emesis.

Nothing about the bus park enthuses me … be it a journey of a few stone throws.

The bus driver sits on his chosen chair; with a feeling of hereditary right to ride us to our terminus.

The bus park spells many a churning feelings to me … the sights I am never brave enough to see as my tummy grumbles like they are tied to my intestines.

People like myself pray for an end to a journey only about to begin.
I’m sorry if it isn’t what you expect, but this is what I feel!

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