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.