You were a Lincoln,
four Abe’s tall
and an N.Y skyscraper
of stories to tell,
of how you
for every upside down 6′ 11″
walking cataclysm,
that promised to fashion you
into a date worth remembering.

Jukebox cheeks
expelled wind-chime laughter,
plastered smile
conceals disaster,
morse code pulse
crescendos faster,
sapphire eyes
resemble Casper;
we all knew that they would ghost you, tempo through for wounds erode you.


I will wait for you,
like rush hour traffic
for a drawbridge,
like a bride’s face
bridled in fiance’s coma
after torn reintroductions.



I wait.



One thought on “Waiting

  1. Reblogged this on nosoundissomething and commented:
    The poem Master of Waiting is my response to this poem Waiting. I just thought that this here, in the poem Waiting, is nothing compared to the waiting that our Heavenly Father is enduring for us. I like this poem Waiting. I just can’t help but think that all that is mentioned would be so much better when we stop waiting and start living for Christ. It wouldn’t be waiting. It would be living for Christ.

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