Poetry / Ribbon

When a dark grey dawn grows
to a deep gold morning
and the speed-blurred trees begin to inhale
their twelve hours of sunshine

and a solitary bus traces a ribbon of concrete
through a vast, uniform wilderness
and the solitary passenger
isn’t where he’s going,
nor where he’s been, but rather
some dark grey region between them;

and the whole world feels like it’s
in some sort of impenetrable stasis
as if the bus is caught in an infinite loop
neverending wheels
neverending road:

The passenger feels as though he’s
travelling through a past
long vacated by the people of the present,
where every solitary thing feels lifeless,
every solitary image lacks luster,
every solitary shuffling sound is muted,

and at his side there rests
a hole in the air
in the shape of a person.

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