The Waiting Room
The trees breathe, out in the garden
I pause my lungs, running on fumes
I want to work, but the world seems unconvinced
As I begin to speak, a howling sigh of wind
Snuffs out the spark of my feeble dream
I’m covered in cobwebs, in my waiting room…
A strange amorphous shape, swells and swallows
Even the vaguest sketch of hope I muster
I can’t seem to shake this cloud magnetic
it clings to the edges of every troubled thought
I’m quickly chilled by the indefinite path ahead
I’m burning through cash, in my waiting room…
This haunted midnight lake, I row upon
A poisoned fog swirls, grows and consumes
My little boat, my lonesome vessel
I’d send up a flare but they’re sodden with sweat
There’s no rescue, beyond my burning arms
Keeps me toiling daily, in my waiting room…
I’ve forgotten friends’ voices, the shape of the moon
I’ve forgotten the hue of distant laughter
For how can I paint a sunrise or complete a poem
When my faith is twisted and bent double
I sit and rot and steam, I fizz with envy
Unable to think of more, in my waiting room…
Am I waiting to live, to die or for the interview
That will change my course most certainly
Could I dare to think of fireworks, or gentle paws
Or sunlight on bare skin, or a healing cup of tea
The joy of beginning again in some new place
Dancing across the threshold of my waiting room…