Shadows of lives, barely human,
clinging onto the pre-dawn mist.
Morning hue paints our shapes in
pale watercolour strokes,
leaking our memories onto pavement,
colouring their edges with unsaid words
and distant thoughts.
Rumbling of the distant trains,
drowned out by the muted weight,
on our backs, in the way.
Phone screen lights cut short by the fog,
tired faces lonesome sketches,
not quite inked,
staring off into the distance.
We are stories barely human,
clinging onto the pre-dawn mist.