Go

The days of waiting are the strangest ones
When nothing seems to happen, yet there seems
To be no time to do it in. Time runs
Out of the pores of life, and into dreams
Which stretch eternally while wakeful hours
Pass by in minutes. Nothing is the same
As it should be, and knowing that fact sours
The things themselves and everything seems lame.
It would be better if the time were gone
Already, and the waiting were not there;
But day must always start up with the dawn
And cannot skip the morning. It's not fair,
But waiting has to happen too, and so
I wait and wait and cannot wait to go.