Standing on the platform waiting for the subway train to arrive.
Sitting at work waiting for an end to be homeward bound.
Waiting for the M2 bus. Again waiting for the train.
Hibernation. Sabbatical. We have No Extradition Treaty from this Land.
Waiting for my weekend.
Waiting only to begin the cycle once again.
Which Season is this silent wondering??
Waiting for payday.
Metropolis reformed for the 21st Century.
Waiting for vacation.
Waiting for retirement.
Doctors Office = Wait.
Dentist Office = Wait
Waiting for physical and emotional pain to be evicted while they both claim permanent residence.
Grocery Shopping check out line = Wait
DMV = Extended Wait. Stuck in the passing lane.
Spending most of the time waiting instead of doing. Yet not knowing what I should do to make the wait shorter. On the other hand perhaps the wait just is and it too is waiting for destiny to manifest itself among the galaxy cosmos. Searching for Excalibur alongside Her Holy Grail.
Romance = Unknown wait. The Lover waits somewhat patiently for the signal to begin. Does true Love even exist? Or have all the Soul Mates/Twin Flames gone on strike?
In the midst of doing midway through action only to find oneself on the every present hamster wheel spinning fast deep inside a rabbit hole.
Sometimes forgetting what I’m waiting for? Dialing. Hearing the phone ringing. Robotic voice, “I’m sorry but the number you dialed is no longer in service.
Waiting are armies of creeping vines taking back what was rightfully theirs. Trees with gnarly rooted feet tenderizing the earth in preparation for Monsoon season.
Mindless waiting versus fruitful waiting? Patience is not my foremost virtue yet she shadows every portion of my life. Patience is the Sugar Plum Fairy holding a dental drill spike through my jaw. Patience is a shallow grave awaiting surrender. The awkwardness of waiting beats out the waywardness of doing.
The Goddess of Harlem shall Live again and repent her people.
Waiting is a desolate abandoned isle populated with numerous shades and shadows ignorant of each other yet crowded together at the beleaguered rocky shore desperately trying to signal passing ships their screams blown away by a fierce sirocco. No deliverance for them. Harmattan blow strong my hopes and dreams carried away to rise no more. Dust bowl funeral dirge mourners wailing marches past not even mindful of my existence. Did the Rapture take place without St. Gabrielle scooping me up with Her multi-colored wings?
Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Keep to the funky beat.
There are no rewards, Trophies or medals here only the next phase standing on it’s Laurels.
Stillness. Silence. Breath.
Waiting? Why? I don’t know because Godot never showed up for the Death Angel is always on time.
Our Wait is over so Let’s go to that place called home.