Leaving Late for Me

Leaving Late for Me

By me, Daniel Bush.

(Written on the bus)                  19/01/2016

* * * * * * ** * * * * * ** * * * * * *

Leaving late for me,

Must mean the sun has just risen.

There is no reason I see,

That anyone should leave before seven.

Outside its blistering cold despite the fact

Winter’s over, its Spring to be exact.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Upon checking the time I work out,

That I’m horrendously late

But soon there will be a bus about.

I shouldn’t kid myself, it will be a long wait.

Listening to others conversations makes me brain dead,

Calling you, in hopes that I may hear solely your voice instead.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Condensation emits from my nostrils in a slow dance,

Stares from across the road, because its wrong to imitate a dragon.

If you’re almost an adult, but oblivious am I, in a blissful trance.

Reality is painful, it will strike you and sting like the bullet of a gun.

Here it comes with a sad fanfare of tired old engine,

Here it comes with its miserable tales again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * *

The piercing light hurts my still sleeping eyes,

Thinking about where it will take me,

It forms a lump in my throat when I realise.

I ask myself when will I ever be truly free?

Bound by rules, more like shackles around my ankles, I feel it burn.

Ascending the great tarmac hill, looking back, anticipating my return.