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Night Bus Home
Unfulfilled,
Left as if standing at a station
But the train is long gone
Ghost tracks, weeds slowly creeping between timber
Lain by the souls of those before us
Passions bared with hammer and pick
Honest men, doing honest work, for dishonest men
Their souls prepared, mine in knots
Why such a heavy heart?
Muse still flutters, but her wings weighted down
Constrained with the shackles of the unfulfilled
How long must she wait before she sheds the chains?
They are not hers, but of those that came before.
