and the bus doors open just the same

every day is beautiful in its own way
with rain and bows and sunlight shoots
a flick book show as she puts down roots
riding through a magic land, unicorn mane in her hands
with the glitter of another day shining on her skin

stirring cinnamon porridge in the window seat
every syllable uniform, pressed and neat
shiny black shoes upon her feet
and the bus doors open just the same

every day a crisp fresh new page
with colour splashes dropping all around
a crescendo of new sights and sounds
dancing through the middle of a dream
with the taste of satisfaction on her tongue

stepping the same cracks in her cigarette break
the lines on her face begin to ache
she's wondering if she's really awake
and the bus doors open just the same

every night is a shadow of the night before
with thought puzzles building the road back home
the tripping rhythm of another poem
riding the track mindlessly
as her nostrils fill with the same stale stench

in her own time she's all lost at sea
boiling up for another cup of tea
she's so sick of her own company
and the bus doors open just the same

And tomorrow will be beautiful in its own way
and the bus doors open just the same.