The Traveller

A quiet place, an empty space

Unrecognized faces, He needs to leave

A passing fad, an overgrown lad

His world un-sad, Once full of grief

Towards the stars, and passing cars

Windows ajar, An empty bus

He stares outside, hands deeply hide

A broken snide, Like frosted glass

Upon his hands, of sweaty glands

Wrapped in a band, Inconspicuously concealed

Bloodied but dried, he bears and bide

A tattered pride, He cringes in silence

He heaves out a sigh, no tears to cry

Closing his eyes, He sleeps till morn'

The bus jerks, he instantly perks

Shied hands on dirk, He takes his leave