The station empty. Dead.
A graveyard of old stories
left to bleed into the stone,
into the cobwebbed screens
That once buzzed overhead.
Old wives tales
told under a full moon.
Dreams faded all too soon.
Screams of joyful nights
replaced by silent mourning.
Departure signs sigh in staccato light,
places never seen, names never read.
The 44a long departed.
Changed course and sauntered away,
but the station still sits,
as it had every other day.
Stained and grey with
each passing hour of decay.
Worn pathways where footsteps
used to tread. Now just strains
of dread and silence.
As the ghost stories
start to rise. Past lives.
Playing on repeat, echoing
the hours when life once thrived.
Now only dust mites
and lonely nights.
Moments when
the rift in the cosmos
gives voice to
those stories long dead.
"Shit", she said, as the
shopping bag split,
as the contents of her
world smashed the concrete,
and the carton of spilt
orange juice
saturated the floor.
In silence she wept as
she glowed beetroot red,
as the chuckling kids
yelled
something obscene,
and the man
with the can of stella
tripped over his feet.
Incoming umbrella dripping
with long forgotten rain,
running for a bus
that will never arrive.
damp footprints
on the worn night.
The sound of engines
dying in the mid-summer heat,
as another pair of eyes
sees love take their ride
on a different bus, to another sky.
The pain inside never dies.
The seasons still turn.
Winter follows autumn.
Summer follows spring,
the clothing cycles
through ages
as those
passing time
on bicycles
get told to
dismount.
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