In the Waiting
You wait
for a sign, inked
in sky,
even butterfly–
some calligraphy that will write
before your eyes
this is it,
permission
to live.
But, waiting,
head bangs
a moving wall,
the bangs you no longer wear
blurring all,
and you decipher only
a smeared graffiti of
it missed,
permission not taken
or taken
for granted.
Oh land; oh lord.
**************************
60 word poem for the wonderfully terse and succinct and sharp and distilled poet Mama Zen, for her prompt on Real Toads (re photograph of Fortune Teller, 1870’s.) Also for the wonderful (and Swedish) poet Bjorn Rudberg’s prompt on Real Toads on the subject of waiting.
Sorry for absence. Life hellish. (But only because of too much work, not an actual real-life problem.) Take care.
ManicDDaily 
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