Bated and battered by mindless meanderings,
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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