WAITING

it seems that waiting
is a fate that I must face;
muffled voices from neighboring tables,
distant footsteps from passing strangers,
passive thoughts of melancholy
all these, my faithful company.

I swim in the middle of a fading crowd
and I am not allowed to drown.
nor am I allowed to rest my weariness;
it's dark once more and I must not mind,
It's cold, and I must not feel.

And waiting, still
is the art that I must master,
a part of me
that I have no power to cut,
or improve,
or even become complacent with.

It is my cross;
when to and not to love it
is a quest that I undertake-
a path that I must walk,
a road that I must pave.

And yes, Still, waiting in itself
Is the goal that I must understand,
amidst the sound of troubled vans
and rushing cars,
and coffee cups nearing their ends,
still, all these I fail to comprehend.

Waiting still for your promises,
way past their expiration dates...
way beyond my deadline for holding on.
waiting, alone and so silent
all the same... all in vain.

*****

*image taken from

www.magda-francot-art.com/newpage28.htm