All we can do is wait. All we can do is ask, that in the pauses, horses for courses, are quickly through the gate. Holding the door, to let the cold air enter. The letterbox flaps with discontent.
Specious though a fateful impasse, have we not dragged our heels enough. Have our brethren not drank, sunk their heads all aghast. Have we not seen all that is left?
The water collects in a transparent dish, outside the pane is a silence. A world is adrift. I have taken great pleasure in accompanying measure, but the clock is relentless in applying its grift.
Force of habit, we’re undone. Is the portal prepared? Is the turtle no more lacking in pace than the hare? Fortune does favour, one more trying inquest. The agent is sullen to the foes he detests.
I’ve bartered for hours, spent the minutes in haste. We’re all waiting for something. Is it tears in the rain? No matter it’s over, and we march to our station. The next hour has come. It’s drained all of our patience.
I am literal in moments and abstruse for the rest. We are lost in this cycle but we trust for the best. More knowing to come, more reaping to do. Lest he comes with his scythe, there’s a field anew.