Leftovers

That image upon the passing bus struck me.
Struck me as if a vehicle of it's own
Mowing me down with a truth
Never better expressed
Until that very second
As I headed to the shore for a moment with myself.

The landscape had held me
Made me contemplate words
Deciphering the puzzle which lay upon my mind;
But no,
That was not fate...
Those winds, those bodies,
That place.
No, as usual
My station lay inland
Inward
Inscribed upon city transportation
A remarkable poignant representation
Of all that was and is;
Leftover
From the debris of my youth
And my attempts to move on;
From the debris of choice
And my attempts to live on
More than leftovers
Placed out for me
I thought by them
Turns out, it was God.

I should've known this some time ago
Everything was right there;
That time they even gave me an award
'...the recipient of this award is a person
who is always able to make something out of nothing...'
But even scraps are something.
Remnants are something.
Even
Nothing
Is something
Leftover form the debris of existence.

I just have to decide
Are the leftovers a feast?
Or are they a famine?
©2014clarencecbess