I wait for the evening to bleed away.
I wait for the evening to die,
in hope of being greeted with a more fruitful morning.
I wait for the fog to clear,
for colours to appear -
streaking the sky like they mean to impress.
I wait for night to envelop me
and steal me away to a land of dreams,
where maybe I'll be gracefully interred;
just for a little while.
I wait for you
like a lame child
waiting for medical care;
waiting for his parents' interventionist God to commit him to death
I wait for the evening to clear;
the air to settle,
and the morning to kick up the cobwebs,
which will soon re-form.
I'm waiting for the evening to inculcate in me some deep yearning
for a time when night-time means more than just shambling ghosts
and a longing to be refreshed.
I wait for the evening to leave,
not knowing that it lives within the dark of my soul;
I guess I'm waiting for a more pleasant happening to arrive,
and bring with it a routine with no items:
just a blank space,
I wait for the evening to give peace to the wind-blown,
although it will only heighten their coldness,
and leave me feeling like being warmed up might kill me,
or turn me into some creature wandering, lost, under the Sun.