Same old roads

 

Cafe, cafe, takeaway,

artisan bakery,

florist where the

flowers bloom and sway.

Coffee shop to see the writers

willing the hours away.

Craft bar and sushi spot.

White doorways

in redbrick conformity

Another bus stop.

Another familiar face

takes the seat

down the aisle from me.

 

Closer to destiny.

Closer to the end of the road.

Another journey

on another bus home.

Another day older.

Another moment

where my memory wanders

into hazy dreamscapes.

Hell is repeating the same routine

for eternity, so on this wintery bus ride

I must be at the 7th level

watching my skin bubble away,

or is this a release from that fate,

for each journey is another

dreamscape painted

on another canvas sky.

 

Allotments, empty space

where the ghost of a house

is still burning embers in the air.

A cul-de-sac of opulence

hidden away between the trees

sat just where the road turns

into the darkness

of low energy lighting

 

I’ve seen so many faces disappear,

smiles fade into the rain

that cascades down the window like

the days falling from a calendar,

But my face has always stayed familiar.

On a circular journey to always find myself,

to scrape away the worn-out edges

so, I can remember the goodness I hold within.

And the face I recognised

at the start of this journey

takes the next stop.

Will they return another day,

or is it another memory whittling away?