Sometimes nothing is needed more

Than a moment's rest from 

The constant commotion

Burrowed in the heel of

The stride of life

 

But then,

In other instances,

The spaces in life seem

To speak more than

The chaotic comfort

Found in a

Crowded mind

 

In these stale places,

Waiting for something to

Move or something to 

Mold, there is

A lull

 

This lull,

The one between happenings,

Lurks just behind where

The eye can see,

Haunting memories

Of what could be

 

It traces with a

Cold touch

Outlines of a 

Past mistake which

Begs to be forgotten,

And it demands

Control over drawing

Maps leading to 

A future meeting

Where truths will

Hang mutely at the edge 

Of familiar lips

 

Suspended in this space

Between places

There is revealed a greater pain

In the Wait than 

In actual confrontation

 

Lulls lead to bleeding

And pleading 

For something -

Even the destructive -

To simply happen

And let escape the tension

That thrives in such

Twisted times of impatience

 

Sometimes nothing is needed more

Than a moment's rest from

The impenetrable silence

Burrowed in the space

Between happenings