Always I wait
I wait for the first line
Some days I make note of the date
But mostly I don’t, and, do you know, that’s fine
I have a vacuous shelter
Which I cannot enter, or hardly speak of
Therein lies the joy of the helter-skelter
Which once passed itself off as love
For all I know the emptiness is compounded
By the singular thought
That no thought is returned or rebounded
All I hear is naught
Naught of the nothingness of light
Naught of the depth of misunderstanding
All that is left is the fear of fight or flight
As if on that runway once more landing
This din is the end of the latest new beginning
Feint leads for fickle feelings
The dies are cast, the hair is thinning
The doubts stand out, up on through the ceilings
