The Wait (Poem 1/2/18)


A nervous hand

Taps a beat repeatedly

Creating a growing anger in the

Person sitting directly beside them



The stale air

Imitates the conversations

The lack of substance

Would make any head turn  



The feeling of disappointment

Wafts into the room

Like a scented cologne

Threatening to suffocate



The waiting

Continues and it seems

Like there is no end

in sight



The clock on the wall

Methodically ticks

The sound is deafening

Thoughts are drowned out



The continuous tapping

Becomes almost therapeutic

The silence is still there

But, the room slips away


A vegetative state takes over

Nothingness, begins to numb

And ebb away what is left

Of sanity

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