Tis hell for most, an inconvenience,
But paradise it is to me.
Where birds of grey land to ferry us off,
And day and night cease to be.
These fluxes of people,
Never meant to meet,
The millions that move,
Their weary feet,
As I sit and wait,
For my call, my watch berates,
My tardy decor.
Time it stopped long ago,
So did my purpose,
For now all I have,
Is to watch, hoping not to be late.
For now, disappears the date.
And only have I to wait.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoezieSecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
