Sunday, December 16, 2012

Weight-ing.


Weight-ing.



Though I suffer no obliging ache,
A pressure comes to bear,
Upon the very heart of me.

Sitting on a low stool,
Flooded by a sea of could be's,
I observe every little detailed sign.

Are you in the silences,
Or will you arrive in triumphant,
Harmonious sweet surrender ?

I wait happily here for you,
Knowing without doubt you'll come,
When the glittering jewels are aligned.

Though the weight, the anticipation
Lays heavy upon me this day,
I beg you come, I'll float away.