Scribbling at the Proverbial Bus Station

And he said he didn't want to go downtown
For there was no one that would call his name
And he likes paintings, books, and mostly art
You could perhaps say he's romantic, yes
Though, what do such things even mean today
And who would even know art under tears
However, he yet peers at shooting stars
On cloudless nights, And he reads storybooks too
To stay awake at night when dreaming hurts
And many other things just pass him by
How much does waiting cost, How does one pay
A door is stood before him, Rusted vigil
Or waiting quiet, Some days are like that
While others are a deeper shade of blue
And while he ponders, He writes all the same