Waiting Game

The needles, tests, and pills,
The scans, whispers, and waiting—
And waiting.

For results, no, rather for hope—
That the battalion will hold
And take back land lost,
Or perhaps just be steady,
Ever waiting.

The world spins around me,
Like living in a snow globe
In a store window.
People pass by, simply—
Laughing and carefree,
In a world not meant for me.

I sit and watch in melancholy,
Wishing for my normal day—
In waiting.

They visit—those that care,
And can handle the awkward
Hospital smells and the unknown.
A respite for healing,
Or final bow to the Maker.

They sit in kind, subtle distraction,
As they handle human porcelain—
Delicate and fragile.
Worry hidden poorly in their gaze
Sits waiting.

Soon alone once more,
Longing for the normalcy of old,
I sit silently, staring at stark walls.

To be alone—truly alone—
Is to find a prayer.
Not superficial or religious,
But from soul to its Maker.
With no answer found—just comfort,
Temporary comfort.
Lone waiting.

The sunsets across the window,
Where darkness is contemplated.
No heaven or hell, just dark abyss.
Alone, ever permanent.

Hell has no fear or fury,
No inferno worse than the thought—
Than that of nothingness—    

Endless waiting.

 Nicholas Campos ~ May 2025