Head in the Clouds
Grimy leather seats,
Shoes wet from the dew,
My shoulder bumps the cold metal of the bus
During each twist and turn in the road.
I am sitting here physically
But I am not here,
not at all.
My mind soars above me,
constantly rooted to the ground by my wet shoes,
but floating in the clouds because of an imagination
that fills the cracks of my entire being.
The spaces that held nothing
are now filled with an obsession with
patterns,
ideas,
concepts,
and numbers
That take me away from this cold, empty bus
And drop me off some place where I can find meaning in everything.