lark

Have I waited in vain?

Have I sloshed through puddles, dampened my pant cuffs, endured the icy sting of the cool autumn breeze, only to realize it was a lark? Only to arrive, sodden and befuddled for absolutely nothing. Will I have to swallow what I thought to be true like some fatalistic pill, sending me to the other side to wallow in my own self-pity?

Here, under the sulking Oak, I realize I am crazy, out of my mind insane, for thinking it would materialize, you, would materialize, out of thin air, dropped from the sky, or burst through the earth, below my shiny, wet, muddy rubber boots, to stand before me, real and perfect.

I am destined to be suspended, torturously, in a room created by myself, with no doors but with endless life. I will hang about uninjured, unharmed other than the cerebral infliction run deep and rampant. I will realize it is here, I am, within these four walls, and not where I think I am, slowly sinking into the sloshed-out ground at the corner of Mink and Mint.

Soon time will tire of me, will give up entirely, stop, and pin upon my damp lapel a little name badge scribbled with the words, never was.

If you do appear then, out of nowhere, you’ll read it and scatter, flee and run for your life, cause you yourself just became something and are not about to throw it away for this soggy girl standing lost-like in the rain.