24th Present 11
I sit.
Aimlessly seeking the demise of the boredom endearing.
It comes.
It does not come.
It matters not.
For the wait..., the wait kills me a thousand times till Tuesday,
And the seeking sears my soul,
And box my heart,
In an unforeseen rage beyond past and future.
Copyright © Olin Poems By | Year Posted 2012
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment