A westbound fog steadily showing its face,
as the sun hides its own.
On a bus bound for somewhere far from here,
an unknown destination far away from home.

Through every savanna, through every green field,
through every soggy
marshland with mud sticking to the heels.

It seems that everywhere I go,
whether it be high or low, far or near
time never seems to slow
and she’s never really here.

With every shrinking cigarette,
each separate dying ember,
with each slow wilting flower,
with each breath, I surrender.

Thoughts of the living traded in for the dead.
“Vanitas” or such, I believe men once said.