I was making my usual journey (I made it again as I wrote this) on the 10th February when the bus I was on came to an unscheduled stop. Everyone climbed out to see what had happened ahead of us and we saw another bus parked to the right, and to the left a motorbike with no rider.
The rider was lying face up on the floor with blood gently draining from his nose. He had four people taking care of him, so, despite having recently done a first aid course, there was nothing I would be able to do. Just then a woman came round the corner with the uniform of a paramedic, so I walked on knowing he was getting correct attention.
It was then that I prayed he would find God through knowledge of his mortality, and, if God willed it, that he would live. He did not live. I will now only know if he was saved when I die and see him again, and that time it will be under much more joyous circumstances.
Confusion; his face read,
Laying dazed on the Tarmac road.
I prayed he would be led,
Not left alone in final hours.
And final hours they were,
After red bus made red his nose.
It ended with no cure,
No way to heal his broken form.