The Last Bus

Standing barefoot.
Barren, huge crossroad.
They say it stops here,
the bus you are on.

Clutching, the doll you gave me
on my birthday the year before.
I try not to stain it –
for my hands are
bleeding from the sores.
knees skinned to the bones shake a little
cruel, lonely it was –
the road from home.

Biting my lips, to stall the pain
burying my face in the doll –
there is still that smell of you
the fragrance of safety,
the mirage of childhood.
Inhaling,
just a bit.
Too greedy to save it all.

It starts to rain
and I feel so cold.
Proud, defying – waiting.
I stand my ground
not for victory but to
hide my shame.
The tears
drown me a bit more.
There is nothing left,
even my shadow is impure.

Its getting darker
the birds are all gone.
I watch other kids, just like me but –
jumping all the way to their homes.
Some stand and stare at my rags
laughing at my doll.
Mock my dirty feet -
but my eyes, they all ignore

And then I am left alone,
at the crossroads
just like the evening before.
I am scared now–
wont you come back for me?
the last bus from heaven,
doesn’t stop here anymore?

© 2008 by Chhaya. All rights reserved
PS: the image is googled

I wrote this poem more than a year back. I didn’t have enough readers back then so I am re-posting it.

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