Poetry

In the winter outside it’s already dark
where we sit in the bus, ordered to a determined trip
and vague acquaintances from the daily coming en going do rise
while some others do dare loud conversations.
 
Outside a sickle moon hangs bright when the bus does brake
and your fingers do lock around mine and your eyes glitter like shining suns.
Your smile do entice a smile of my own and the worries disappear
where we are in a dungeon as slaves travelling between work and home
 
and strings of lights hang high and catch the eye,
as a enchantment to the cold city
but most of the people are grim, some somewhat sad
others are very tired and the bus does wobble on
roars up the hillock like an overeaten monster
that does vomit at the set bus stop.