T I M I N G
The slow ticking morning
became etched
with her thoughts.
Scratched deep
into the very fabric
of the moment.
Every passing minute,
masquerading
as an hour.
Walls were built,
brick by silent brick,
as she waited
for the breakthrough
that never
came.
The slow ticking morning
became etched
with her thoughts.
Scratched deep
into the very fabric
of the moment.
Every passing minute,
masquerading
as an hour.
Walls were built,
brick by silent brick,
as she waited
for the breakthrough
that never
came.
For more of my poems
please visit Out of My Ocean
.
please visit Out of My Ocean
3 comments:
oh how sad that the breakthrough never came - but so well written
mine is up as well
Very well laid out progression of time spent waiting, and I, like most readers, I would imagine, got left with my mouth open saying but, but...
Elizabeth
Love how the pace and form match the words. I especially like how you describe minutes as hours.
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