delusion

A Bus Ride

Strangers- sitting, commuting and waiting.
Maybe loving or hurting, planning or hating.

Sometimes eye contact says too much.
We're leaning so our thighs don't touch.

The words on the bus go round and round.
This is what we said when we didn't make a sound.
Just observing and extracting,
interpreting and reacting.

We're closer than we'd like to be,
avoiding things that you might see,

Up-close humanity's
still a flawed reality.

Identities we've bought and held are all that really show,
to faces that we will forget that we will never really know.

Cryptic labels worn across our chests
and stitched into our jeans-
and me, scribbling, to decipher them
and what they all could mean.

Strangers - sitting, commuting, waiting.
Maybe living or learning, regretting or hating.

The words on the bus go round and round.
This is what we said when we didn't make a sound.

Pores and piercings and trademarked clues,
with insufficient evidence we'll judge you by your shoes.
Defining and dividing, we're empirically confused.

Observation extracts.
Interpretation reacts.