Window Seat

On its four rounded wheels
The stuttering roaring bus,
Stood impatiently in the open
A door to untraveled paths.

A luminous frosty misty morning
Put threads that scarfs tiny necks
As preceptors readily count heads
With prolonged raring curiosity.

Occupied window seats
With chums and chants
To the dauntingly motile bus,
Steadily fuming to distant lands.

The ostensible beholder of sight
A calm passing motion picture,
Through the transparent glass,
Winters wilting flowers wither.

Weaving through old barn yards,
The crumbling paint of isolation
Fall on the cold empty grapevines
The tree barks that turned to coal.

Brittle roads of lost villages,
Rowdy cattles clamoring for food,
Tethering to the remaining grain
Like the leashed, doomed in zoos.

Suddenly the nourished lands
Spring forth with orange farms,
Melted frost sprouts sunflowers
The inevitable open green.

The road seems endless to a huffy
Obscured by tall modern buildings
Open markets call men with suits
The coffee beans keeps them up

Portentous window seat sight,
The stillness of a moving world
A first to my tender mind, for
These worlds don’t look like mine.

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