There’s wastefulness in all time lost
of moments where the mind seems blank.
You can’t remember every second of the bus ride
home through traffic lights and cars and frost.

Yet in flashes, chained sharp fragments,
wherein we live our secret lives,
when genius meets our make-belief,
is beauty of a hidden love in figments.

Those thoughts that are forbidden, thrive
on what we sense or what we should let go.
Still everything is soon forgotten, gone
as we step out the bus at half past five.


Comments on: "Secret lives on bus rides" (10)

  1. Two rides for the price of one. Have had that experience a lot on bus rides these days. 🙂

  2. Perceived in beauty – the dreamed transit of time – is this my stop?

  3. Daydream perhaps? I have nearly missed stops doing this very thing! Or sometimes nearly missed my stop by falling asleep! There is a drone to buses that seems to drug me. 🙂

    L&H x

    • 🙂 I was in a bus today and off my thoughts went lol Busses are made to be somewhere else! L&H xx

  4. That’s a neat idea for a poem, Ina – and a great title too!

  5. I used to ride a bus a lot – back and forth to work and know what you write of here. And even driving, as I do now, allows for much imagining. I just wish all those ‘great’ ideas were still there when I ‘needed’ them. XO

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