In the end it doesn’t matter.
The evening with its heavy clouds
coming down like the eyelids
of a child trying to stay awake,
slowly succumbing to sleep.
The last shops closing,
a quiet presence stretching out
along the pavements before settling
beneath the amber cover
All seems a breath, a sigh away
from dissolving into the reflections
of itself glazed on wet streets,
and becoming exhibits
in memory's gallery
of the missing.
It wasn't meant to be like this,
head resting against the window
of a moving bus, the mind
dozing off into a long, thin blur,
who knows where.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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