The Clock ticks as though it holds some authority still,
Now reduced to desperate, meaningless, meandering endeavours while I sit
And wait.
 
Relentless life continues to buzz, to need, to consume,
But the spark that once was housed here, with determination, sleeps
So I wait.
 
Colours bleach indiscriminately and leave bitter taste,
Vices remain untarnished in their appeal and subtle truths,
And they wait.
And wait,
And wait,
For me.
 
A sound, memory, a tug from expanse long forgotten,
Lost voices cry out and they remind, they urge their own recall,
And they cry.
And wait,
And cry,
For me.
 
I remember feeling part with the weight of emotion,
Of controlled and rationed, joyous ephemera, but I ache,
And I bleed.
And they bleed,
We bleed.
 
Re-birth is ruled by no master, let alone strength of mine,
Its womb is omnipotent to demands, its teeth sharp enough to graze my grey soul
But I will not bow,
I can wait,
I must wait,
I will wait.