Worse Than What It Is

Another day
Left in
Suspense

When waiting
Is silent
Commotion

Ushering
Such quiet
Distress

With whispers
Of doubt
On my mind –

Begging
Each sun
For a glance

So moons
Come quick
To reveal them

By terror
Of night
Which I gather

Is a waste
Of my time
If at best,

Clinging
This phone
Off the hook

Or wallowing
Idle
From sleepiness

Caught
At tips
Near my fingers

Which speak
Through keys
Out of spite.

Typing
This much needed
Rest

With limited
Means
Of expression

And words
Too many
To gather

Or remember
With hope
They are right –

As penance
Is always
So sad

Yet brutal
Where truth
Is its fiction

Of imagining
Outcomes
On paper

Where the answers
Are never
Enough.

– J. Pigno

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