One Languid Afternoon, A Bus Ride With You.

One languid afternoon,

a bus ride out on the country roads,

you and I spoke of worlds beyond comprehension,

touched upon the crumbles of intangible dimensions.


One languid afternoon,

during our bus ride through the grassy patchwork meadows,

you and I uncovered the meaning of shadows.

The phantoms of memories that seeps into consciousness,

the barracks too brittle to restrain the dampen haze of contemplation,

the knotted wires of our brain,

the ‘bottomless pit’ that we will never be able to emit,

no matter how hard we try to feign.


Some say that religion has the cure,

a bittersweet dose of the obscure,

something, ‘bigger than yourself’

to unbosom the physicalistic credence shelf.

A scapegoat, a forged pledge of benediction,

that with its jurisdiction, duly swears to save you from sentient affliction,
the human condition.


Others contest that you are deluded,

to believe in this nonsense, it’s just because you want to feel included.

But is it such an abstracted retort to hope

that more to life subsists than what we are told exists,

under the microscope?


Hope to met again with those who left just a bit too early this morning,

the sunbeam was just peering through the curtains, when you left here without warning.

To carry on that unbroken conversation

which is only temporarily interrupted,

for an imperceptible duration.

A flicker of an eyelash, a draught of prickly air,

peeling back the mossy layer of absent and misplacement,

to open the front door and be greeted by the welcoming face,
the familiar warmth,

and laughing, you ask me, ‘what made you so late!’

I would reply, ‘oh life just got in the way’,

but now, that just sounds a little bit too cliché,

so instead I will say: “oh I was just counting down my days,

I had a few errands to run here and there.”

And I won’t mention how every time I saw the sun rays,

I thought of that beautiful, beautiful morning,

When careless and untroubled, you left me without warning.


And when I think back to that languid afternoon,

now a glimmer of my distant memory,

a melted snow-flake in a simmering puddle,

I think of all that I did not know back then,
the energy pouring out from the crook of your mouth,

forming verses, which diffused our contemplations,

allowing our phantoms to mingle,
storing up these indispensable rags of confront
for a later cold front.


And when we terminated at our stop,

That transient journey, the fleeting moment of meditation seemed to come all of a sudden to a


And each fell silent, one after the other

content to sit in the stillness,

eyes locked with understanding

that no one likes to hear this talk,

no one likes to listen to this morbid squawk.


But when I think of you and I,

on that banal, languid afternoon

–Yes we both could have been anywhere, but I was there with you,

taking that bus ride, we were tucked away in the pocket of our own preoccupations.


When I think of you and I,

on that languid afternoon,

I’m assured that there must be more.


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