Patience

This dying is too slow,
From cradle to grave,
When they crave rest.
Is it now, in an hour,
Tomorrow, in a year?
Weariness is never the
Same as patience.

The living deserve pity
Not anger, that constant
Fear, that uncertainty,
Knowing they don’t
Know what lies there
Under cover of their
Futile futures.

Gods are patient. Time
Is nothing to us, doesn’t
Exist, and all things are
Certain for us. And so we
Play with our toys on
That curved land down
There, and laugh at their
Helplessness in our hands.

R 30/09/2023 12:33