Sunday, February 21, 2010
Waiting and watchful with vigilant vision,
Passing the muster of youthful exuberance,
Pressed for a time into servitude’s locker.
Prancing and pacing and mark-time-march,
Seven mile hiking to nowhere and back.
Searching for what? For something amazing?
Waiting for my quarter-hour of fame.
“It takes time,” the ne’er-do-wells tell me.
“Must be patient,” they throw in my face.
But treading in time is like treading on water.
Must keep moving else sink to the bottom.
No one is patient. It’s just a façade.
No one make waiting a chosen profession,
Hated regression, silent confession,
Wandering into the stagnant congestion.
When will I realize I can’t be immortal?
Who keeps the watch ticking endlessly on?
Waiting for me? Waiting for no one.
Time marches sideways; never keeps still.
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