I wanna strike up conversations with strangers in stations, watch stars from the hilltops, drink in bars until the dawn drops in and the sun sings songs of summer.
In the cellar, it’s always cooler and the light shines a little slower, my eyes take time to follow where my feet are sometimes treading.
These are introspective drawings and knowing where I think I’m going makes the waiting so much brighter.
Lots to do and not much time left when the right time stayed behind me, but I always felt its shadow and her hands reached out to touch upon the one who never knew her,
that has passed now, four o-clock now and the ticket office closed at three
and only me with one old suitcase, writing lines along this old face,
waiting for the conversations to arrive.
© 2019, John Smallshaw.