A collection of odd lines I've jotted down in the last month, assembled in a vague manner

The fresh smell of vomit permeates the air,
Reminding me of the hate and despair,
Lost and rendered with feelings of hope,
Dashed on fair Whitby's rocky cliffs,

The lonely wanderer continues the journey,
Searching ever onward for his land of plenty,
The bus driver sits behind bullet proof glass,
As the stuttering behemoth unveils the past,
The wayfarer,
Forgetting his place,
Turns ashamed as he abandons his grace,
Rattling down these old cobbled streets,
The paving as cracked as his weathered skin,
Unable to catch the gaze,
Of those that he meets,

Preachers line those splintered paths,
Proclaiming the end of the world,
He laughs,
For the world around him will never end,
He is the eternal, immortal, death's only friend,

The journey continues at night,
Hollowed faces,
Skin stretched on bone,
Aboard the midnight train,
That brings us all home,
Outside of the windows,
Nothing but black,
Stretching beyond,
The sight that we lack,
Bleary-eyed, the drifters fellow nomads,
Restlessly nod their heads,
To the click clack rhythm of steel on steel,
Praying for a journey's end,

But still the train goes on,
The wheels of this nation will never slow down.
A vagabond,
Alone,
If I'd have died tonight,
I'd have never been able to tell you,
I love you.