I finished a book

Today, captive on a summer coach of corporeal ghosts,
All desperate to free their cramped limbs
Brought on by this sweltering perpetuity of moving and yet

Staying dead still.

And me?
I am the least tangible of them all.
An entire being lost
In the flesh and blood of these characters that I know
Better than myself.

Their lives are
Succinct
Chapters.
Beginning,
Middle,
End.

If only I could follow such narration,
Break from one turgid existence and the
Personal purgatory of my sentence:

The M11: Manchester to London

Here. There. Is no beginning or end but
Instead two places where my faltering roots
Cannot grasp onto something more...
Solid.

But as the bus trails to a halt,
I turn the last leaf.
Flesh and blood evaporate in a flash of

The end.