I was waiting at the bus station’s hub,

Observing the buses, in colourful arrays of blocks.

Varying in hues and sizes, much like you and I.

Some aged buses rest by the wayside’s edge,

A melancholy sight, their fate on life’s ledge.

Their scent is a blend of aged oil and old paint.

Within a few, green short plants find their space,

Hiding from the sun’s relentless glare,

Some dogs find a place in their shadows share.

Each scratch and scuff a tale untold,

Perhaps these buses hold a more profound connection,

To these creatures and flora.

New buses gleam with polished grace,

Young buses are always running, racing past

Searching for their purpose by time’s vast

In their endless race of delivery passengers, 

As if it’s their creed,

They ignored the old buses, 

they paid them no heed.

Without realising in the cycle of life, they, too, will fade,

Then the new, robust buses raced past,

Unaware that they, too, are bound by time’s vast.

Time’s touch leaves no one’s fate unswayed.

So, in this bus station’s bustling domain,

Old and new buses write their transient refrain.