3 September 2012
If you walk across a bus stop, in the middle of the night; You're likely to be met with a sobering sight. Sitting in the stop bench, sketch pad in hand, You'll see the lingering ghost of a man.
With nowhere to go, restlessly waiting, Clinging to a hope that's gradually fading. Sitting all alone as time slips him by, Time is still around him, he knows no goodbye.
A worn-out jacket and hat he wears, Face heavy with sorrow and longing he bears. He yearns for her touch, he can't find his peace, With each passing second his pain will increase.
Jean-Baptiste, once his name, a regular chap, Who left home one day, with naught but his cap. In pursuit of a wonderful artist's career, He set out to the city, shed many a tear.
At the bus stop, one day, he saw her appear.
Elegantly graceful, delicately frail, Baptiste fell completely bewitched by her spell. Surrendered his love for her, so naïve, He couldn't bare the heartache of watching her leave.
Rejected, heart-broken, Jean-Baptiste fell ill, His sentiments shattered, his heart standing still. And though it's still a wander what his sketch pad contains, Some say that what's inside it, retains a world of pain.
Drawings of the lady, tormenting him, perhaps. Refusing to let go, burdening his heart. But he hangs on to them every night, no escape. In the hopes of seeing her, idly, he'll await.
Bus Stop • Opuss № I