Following in from the last post, this is a little something I wrote.
I have never met him,
or seen him, it is true.
All I know of his existence,
is a book he left behind.
The man on the train.
It is but a little notepad,
left alone on a train seat,
the owner long gone now.
My curiosity is piqued by
The man on the train.
Some pages have scrawls,
Others remain untouched.
These scribbles hold hope,
and speak of love, the love of
The man on the train.
He, for I think it’s a he,
wrote of his fanciful dreams,
his love and joy, and sweet
verses of songs he’s penned,
The man on the train.
Till his last entry, this morn,
of his wish to begin anew,
I glimpse the heart, the soul
of the man I never met,
The man on the train.
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