You would not believe the night I had.
I was drenched, soaked to the bones.
The only thing that was not wet
We're my misconceptions.
My misconceptions, they are dry.
The touch beneath my fingertips
Does not belong to me.
This body is not mine.
Pellets of water
Ricochet off the metal exterior
Of the Bus.
Perception is a hell of a drug.
I close my eyes
And shut off the warm orange
In exchange for the harsh neon green;
The man in front of me keeps turning in his seat
And every time he looks at me,
He wears a different face.
Black melts to grey,
And grey mixes into a murky yellow.
Other faces are peering out of the dark
And into the Bus.
They are looking at me.
My hand is swollen
And the veins are inflamed,
Writhing beneath the flesh.
I am coughing now.
I am wet and sodden,
And I remember colours half forgotten,
As the world is so loud now
Yet so quiet.
So bright and filled with colour,
But not lurid.
Lucid.
That transcendent noise that emanates from Her bowl
Reverberates in my head:
The echo.
Just like the Marabar.
And my eyes are privy to illusion and
Hallucination.
People reach out and stretch,
But when I look up,
They are not there.
The Bus is steamed up
And the lights of the outside world
Pass through me.
My socks are wet.
Am I wearing out now?
No, I think not.
Shadows caress the glass
And the metal rivets,
Their tendril fingers searching for a loose screw,
A way in.
My face doesn't feel like my face,
And my voice doesn't sound like my voice.
It is deeper and more relaxing
And it lulls me into its world.
The creatures of the nighttime scurry overhead,
Their long claws tapping and scraping.
They howl with laughter.
But they are probably trees.
Now we rumble on through the darkness,
And all that exists is the bus.
And me.
And my voices,
Thrumming in my head.
I stare at my face
And my face stares back.
And I cannot tell it's mine,
But when I recognise it,
The eyes are already dead.
And the puppet gets yanked across the stage;
And my lifeless body
Has become a marionette.
My throat is dry too now,
And my tongue is dry as well.
But I still remain cold and wet,
And on the Nightbus.
YOU ARE READING
An Ongoing Anthology of Poetry
PoetryThis is a collection of the poetry that I have written and been writing since around about October 2018. Naturally, not every poem has been of a decent enough standard to be included here, but the ones that have been included are the ones that I lik...
