London Poem: Day 60

16 October

It’s strange really.
The anticipation builds through
Hours of waiting,
And comes to fruition
In soft tufts,
Like lazy leaves tossing
In the breeze.
Though, the uncertainty
Of when the time will come
When the wind will
Pull and tug
their lives to the ground.
Time comes for all things to end,
but where that is
And when it will come
Rests in our hearts,
Though sometimes distant,
As fear and anxiety.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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