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
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