A poem about waiting for nothing.

By Bianca Gonçalves via Pexels

They say that patience is a virtue
But I digress; it’s fool’s gold
It’s the smudge of prints on an hourglass
A cup of coffee long gone cold

The clouds are slower than imagined
As one should waste their bated breath
For the silent cry of the telephone
Is akin to a dance of death

No one need know the untold struggle
It’s all too clear in hollowed eyes
You can attempt to pat the poor bloke’s arm
Pray a blessing reaches their cries

Only the guilty claim nothing’s wrong
As they bid all sorrow be shed
They are those who watch mail overflow
Who leave their lonely letters unread

Perhaps it’s a form of ailment
Without a remedy of cure
But are all those stars not lovely tonight?
May that light comfort the unsure

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