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The Wait

The coffee cup, cracked, the newspapers, stacked, the teaspoon, tarnished, well used. The bills neatly piled, the kitchen, Delft tiled, the face, time worn and bruised. The phone in the hall, for no one to call, the pendulum clock still ticking. The photos, well thumbed, jam stained and crumbed, old wounds, in need of some licking. Words said in haste, that left a bad taste, the slam of the door like thunder. The pain of separation, a cardiac laceration, two people, two lives, torn asunder. And now the clock scolds, as the wrinkled hand holds the only letter received, scrawled in haste. Of the need to be free, and how it must be, when two hearts disagree, what a waste.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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Date: 10/6/2020 1:49:00 PM
Felt like I was there as I was reading, great imagery John though sad, Emilia : ) x
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John Jones
Date: 10/6/2020 1:57:00 PM
Thanks Emilia. It is sad but you read about this stuff all the time and it’s all down to pride or something trivial, both of which are easily fixed and that’s the saddest thing of all. Keep well. X
Date: 8/29/2020 4:37:00 AM
So true and so well expressed...
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John Jones
Date: 8/29/2020 4:53:00 AM
Thanks so much for your feedback