This bus stop, filthied by a thousand shoes

This bus stop, filthied by a thousand shoes
of people walking in, and through, and out--
It is my heart, that pays some unknown dues,

as every little gain I surely lose,
and wonder why they even come about
this bus stop.  Filthied by a thousand shoes,

I often scribe my grief in staves of Blues,
my lyrics harsh, my wails, crescendo'd, shout:
"It is my heart that pays some unknown dues."

This mystery affords me little clues
arranged as jigsaw pieces strewn about
this bus stop, filthied by a thousand shoes.

Yet broken hearts make minds of little use,
a fog-cloaked worthless land, dry-parched from drought--
it is my heart.  I pay some unknown dues,

for sins unsure which God will not excuse,
and so my heart's a terminal throughout
this bus stop, filthied by a thousand shoes--
It is my heart, that pays some unknown dues.

(C)2019, Christos Rigakos