by forgingpaths

( 1)
There are footsteps echoing overhead
Muffled voices talking low
I can not tell what is said
I can not say I care though.

Thoughts drift about with no anchor hold
Feelings wash over then pass
Like memories of winters cold
Or the smell of cut grass

Sometimes I think it may be day
Other times it may be night
It’s hard to tell when up is down
And grey covers all sight

I remember putting thoughts together
Now Even Words are hard to grasp
Filaments of who I might have been
A glare upon a glass

I think I hear a door click
Like a cyclical refrain
Is it someone coming,
Or leaving once again?

One Comment to “waiting”

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