The sun shone as usual,
and he was going to work as usual.
He was in the afternoon shift.
And there was nothing of a new leap.
Ascending the stairs
was always a gasp for the air.
He saw people waiting for the train.
The rail was there still,
and there’s no chance of derail.
The view of its long path reminded
him of a journey.
It’s nothing else but his life’s journey.
He stood and waited at the usual place.
The train approached, and everybody gazed.
Thereafter, the door opened.
Everybody entered, and the train rode again.
As he sat down, he saw two familiar faces
whom he did not know the names.
Many seats were not taken still.
Nobody was talking, and the quietude
was so tranquil.
Different faces showed different expression.
The picture of solitude was common.
The train stopped once more
to unload and load once more.
The quietude was broken for a while,
and the journey continued for a long while.
At times, he saw people talking here and there.
But periods of silence were still there.
Finally, the train reached his destination.
He got out and walked his way on.
Comments about this poem (The Routine by Chess dela Cruz )
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