Apparently it is easier,
if used words are clear, and simple.
Lines are the search of my wait,
deliberately made readable,
in case you could help
me, and find what I am waiting.
Evenings suddenly becomes intimidating.
Darkness, I do enjoy, not fear.
But evening with shadows in puberty
asks about my wait.
My progress into the matter.
Matter? I learnt it is weight and space.
Nothing concerns me,
My wait is weightless and vacuum.
Say, I don’t know about my waiting.
True that, I don’t. Not even sure,
I am waiting.
Evenings are chasing, again before
another again begins.
I fake myself saying my waiting is
for a skill that could define me,
or an idea none said before.
Believe me, my wait is boring,
as it sounds to you.
Boring, and never time consuming.
The wait slow the ticks, sixty seconds is uninteresting.
Boring, and slow, and tasteless.
Long as unknown roads,
dull and disguised in harmless cruelty.
Boring, and dream-like.
My wait is something I don’t know.