The Queue

The people in front of me, they shuffle and squirm, stewing in their own restless angst. The queuing procedure appears unbearable for them as they toy with the fruits of the promise land: a seat on the bus and the final destination.

My body stands relaxed, my mind clear, and my limousine gently rumbles the pertinent tone of presence. But does anyone else see the bus as a limousine, its engine noise as glory, and their body as a doorway to liberation?

Their minds taut with ideas of past and future, the strain of which bypasses the wonderments of their heart.

I take a swig of my bottled water, as if drinking the finest champagne, for I have nothing, yet I am rich beyond the measures of this world!