Tock

I shall wait, and do it well
Although I do not think I am
That good at it (if I can tell -
It presses on me gram by gram
As if a weight were lowered slowly
But perhaps it's always so
Even for those patient holy
Saints who let the world just go).
I shall be here almost eternal
Rooted in a spot alone
Until the world has gone infernal
Or the icicles have grown
Or until you get me, rather,
Despite all this lengthy blather.