Waiting Room

The streets are lines of lines
With miles of turnstiles.
Faces are fixed and frozen
In grimaced fascinations
Of worthless fabrications.

Hollow voices drift and fade
Like an ebbing, floating fog.
Circling arms move methodically
But make no future progress
Other than counting corpses.


          1. This whole experience has helped me embrace my writer self even more than I had already begun to. I am invested in my writing life in ways that are brand new. It took me until I was 48 to really feel like a writer, but I am happy to be here no matter my age.

            Liked by 1 person

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