The lateness of the hour
doesn't lesson the life
that flickers through,
buzzing like flies.
We depart the bus station
and go along for the ride.
Charles street, driver looking
for drunken feet striding
out onto the road so wide.
Last bus, but people still mill around,
prowling the concrete,
to meet and greet,
replete with
a glass
of something cold
to make
the night complete.
But travelling
away from these granite
pavement streets,
on the bus
back seat,
the poet writes.
Headphones
clasping ears tight.
Tied to the beat.
Music to inspire and delight.
To bring back to life,
this dead of the night.
He has been scrabbling
for an hour at least, unleashing
thought butterflies
from his cold station seat,
the place he retreats
to let his mind wander,
to mull over
long pondered questions,
to seek answers
in the faces of strangers.
To only ever see
more questions
staring back quizzically.
In a sea of sounds
and flashing streetlights,
he watches the darkness smiling past,
glimpsing into the void
he thinks of all he can't see, and asks...
"In this world of misery
won't someone shine
a beacon of hope for me"
And as if in reply.
He sees the moon lighting the late-night sky.
Oh, the light. He sighs. Smiles and writes.
Another journey another stride.
Every single push
away from his agoraphobic side.
Thanks for reading.
taken from the #escapril prompt
"Oh, the light"
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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