Transcendental Bus Ride

To the strangers, who, for 45 minutes or so, are the objects of each others' reality.

We all remain as our charred selves
Ashen reflections of a wretch
or a beast of haughty nature
It all depends on the corpus
their coordinates in eminence
and their mood
their star's unique, strained luster

Some knit their livelihoods into small trinkets
and crawl with them into the juvenile galaxy
through a stitch in logic
that got them fired at the factory

Some consume the vignettes
indigo skies, ancient myths
with curious forks and knives
of the longing soul and mind

Some are cherubs in pursuit
of their sweet angel's wings
trav'ling north to amoré
trav'ling forwards
into a blissful, wild gust

Perched in shrouds, in rows
they live and die
in oblivion of each other
mirrors of the moral shackle

No matter the clockwork composing the man
or the depth of the walkway
from ark to hallowed land
We're all busted brothers
of dissonant times
Kicking up the same sandstorm
and shrouding our rimes
At least for a little while.