The passing of the minute

Waiting, waiting, waiting,

The wind, time and day all have stopped,

the minute begrudgingly passes

As I wait for the first sound,

My thoughts flood as to what that could be, 

That would make me rise from this comfortless chair


A knock on the door or a beep of a car horn,

The likeliest, in knowing what to expect,

The minute begrudgingly passes, 

As my mind turns to frantic tinntinnabulation,

Harsh, imaginary bells, anything to break the still,

And make me rise from this comfortless chair


Impatience, impatience, IMPATIENCE!

It writhes in my thoughts and in my gut,

The minute begrudgingly passes,

Yet nothing manifest sounds, 

Except the detatched tick-tocking of the clock, 

Each click of its hands doing nothing to raise me from this comfortless chair.

◄ An Evening

Turn of the year ►


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