I’m scouring the sky in a moving bus,
The seats barely covered,
My feet upon the engine seat,
With my heart in an upheaval,
Yet I scour the skies for you.
The headphones stuck to my bobbing head,
The traffic is one in a million,
The street lights all dead and gone,
The sea is calm from my typing spot,
Yet I bob my head to my crazy play list.
Thinking of my divided attachments,
Chewing on a stale pinkish gum,
Disturbed by my fringed look,
Rummaging in my bag for something to eat,
Yet I’m thinking of those attachments.
I spot a small and lonely isle on the sea,
There is a diatribe playing in my ear,
There is a ping from a bb contact,
There are strangers peeking into my window,
Yet I still sight that lonely isle.
I feel a sudden sprout of joy,
Questions keep rising to the surface,
Wraith-like structures crawl up my leg,
The heat from the engine begins to consume my face,
Yet I still feel that sprout of joy.
I just refuse to be torn down,
The urge to cry out and bleed exists,
The anticipation of the pessimist lurks in midair,
The fever of another broken existence threatens,
Yet I refuse to be torn down.