No better time than now
for anything
to come my way
through the haze of the day
that hangs low
presses down,
reminding me I’m still alive
and awake
and aware of what
I still don’t know.
A return envelope
in a letter never sent,
no postage necessary
if mailed on this planet
but words
are always welcome.
Each day
is a step closer
to a cup half-full
but I keep raising the glass
to my parched lips
searching for a drop
of anything,
seeking solace
with my tongue,
but the cup remains
merely an oasis
of despondent cries.
Patience is not a virtue,
simply a justification
of fear
that I may have lost it all,
like a call that remains
unattended to.
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