The bus..

The lines are running backwards,
the green grass wave, greeting us,
Wind playing with my hair,
The sleepy guy, loud guy
the crying baby,
And the staring granny,
The cattle, waking up the driver,
the curves of the road
Rocking us on board,
We keep moving forward,
With the sun,
With the moon.

The bitch

She was there stumbling over stones,
on the road.
Shivering in cold,
Feeling my hold,
lids half closed,
so frail and tiny.
She dined milk,
a longing lick
for the boned and bogged
tum of hers.
She was blind,
I didn't know.
Her stumbling legs
pawing in air,
Tiny thin tail
Swirling around
to play.
The next morning
All I heard was her scream
somewhere.
She was there,
her lightless eyes
reflecting them,
She was there,
No blood,
No wounds,
No scars,
And no breath.

Grey heart

It was cloudy.
Dawn and dusk looked the same.
Sun rays in vanity,
Everything looked grey.
What's beyond can't be seen.
The dim silence silencing my heart,
the matching rhythm,
the grey rhythm.
A  call for clarity,
but just a cold wind.
A call for light,
just a lamp post.
Fed up with whines,
the heart which is numb,
takes all the pain,
sees all the light,
felt all the vain,
yet loves the grey day,
the most.
It doesn't give clarity,
but gives the hope for a change.
It shows suffocation,
but also shows survival.
It plays the faint song
a grey heart sings...