Bus Stop

I’m staring down the headlights,

of feelings left unsaid.

Waiting on the course of time,

to draw me from my bed.

I sit for countless hours,

while Traffic rushes by.

(Privileged in his innocence,

without a need to try)

His journeys go unblemished,

(and every stop is right)

for any man who lives their life,

without a fear in sight.

But here I sit and wonder,

“What does the future hold,

for the few among us,

left waiting in the cold?”