The Corner Seat.

[Recovered from my notes during the days of information-hunting for a stupid serial; September 2010.]

In the corner seat of the bus,
The last seat on the left;
Black tattered leathers,
Altogether unkempt.

The leaves outside are swaying;
Or is it just my vision?
For I am drenched in sweat,
Weather's own indetification.

The black ink draws patterns
With each mineral droplet
Even nonsense makes sense
It doesn't matter, yet.

The mind is an expert pendulum
Reels of memory and real
Oscillating in rough rounds
The loop like Devil's deal.

Sanity, aren't you insane?
Stability, you unstable?
When the daydream is replayed
As slumber's vivid fable?

Now the bus starts moving,
The engine engineers noise,
The rush of air beside,
Faking Nature wind-wise.

The driver honks the horn
In a relentless melody;
How easy it is to conjure
A rhythm in cacophony!

The window of the car beside
Betrays a boy of five
Sparkling eyes and sparkling teeth;
Is childhood really naive?

The head heavy with sleep
Weighs down on the eyes;
Magnified, and amplified,
The sound pays the price.

The cellphone vibrates against the thigh.
And I know who's calling up.
I close my eyes and still the world.
And let the voice fill up.