I sat at the bus stop
I sat at the bus stop at the end of the world,around me the scene was blurred by rain and noise.And a dim light held its ground against the night,letting me see what little world there was that still existed free from the rain.
This rain was a violent one.And its sound chilled me to my core.
With me was man,man in all its glory and all its self loathing and disgust.He wore black and had lips scarred and burned by his nicotine lovers.
Here we sit,I said.And he replied nothing,in a loud voice to fight the rain.
The sound of the violence makes it hard to hear,but in his voice I could hear the whimper of conscience,of love,of self deceiving hope.
But the sound of the violence still resounds from valley to dale,and in it,his voice is lost.
We sat together for a time,sometime silent and sometimes letting our voices free.We spoke of religion,of the free worlds,of the finer points of coitus.
And when the rain stopped, man stood up and left.Leaving me nothing but the smell of stale ciggarete smoke and one cancerstick.
When he gave it to me he said keep this,and remember me as I am tonight,remember me as the whimper in my voice and not the sound of my violence,remember me as the man who shared the small light with you and last of all,remember me as the man who gave you his last ciggarette.
And he was gone,and the light seemed a bit dimmer and the night a bit stronger.
I pull out the ciggarete he gave me as I type this.I light it,and it tastes of the world.
I step out of the bus stop,and into the world,the glow of my cancerstick leading me forward like Rudolph's red nose on a foggy night.
And with every drag,I remember.
This rain was a violent one.And its sound chilled me to my core.
With me was man,man in all its glory and all its self loathing and disgust.He wore black and had lips scarred and burned by his nicotine lovers.
Here we sit,I said.And he replied nothing,in a loud voice to fight the rain.
The sound of the violence makes it hard to hear,but in his voice I could hear the whimper of conscience,of love,of self deceiving hope.
But the sound of the violence still resounds from valley to dale,and in it,his voice is lost.
We sat together for a time,sometime silent and sometimes letting our voices free.We spoke of religion,of the free worlds,of the finer points of coitus.
And when the rain stopped, man stood up and left.Leaving me nothing but the smell of stale ciggarete smoke and one cancerstick.
When he gave it to me he said keep this,and remember me as I am tonight,remember me as the whimper in my voice and not the sound of my violence,remember me as the man who shared the small light with you and last of all,remember me as the man who gave you his last ciggarette.
And he was gone,and the light seemed a bit dimmer and the night a bit stronger.
I pull out the ciggarete he gave me as I type this.I light it,and it tastes of the world.
I step out of the bus stop,and into the world,the glow of my cancerstick leading me forward like Rudolph's red nose on a foggy night.
And with every drag,I remember.