The platform is empty, the iron rails glow,
Waiting for a train that is heavy and slow.
I've counted the tiles a hundred times o'er,
Listening for footsteps at the station door.
Waiting is an art with a bitter, sharp taste,
A mountain of moments that go to a waste.
Or maybe it's a cocoon, silent and deep,
Where the secrets of patience are given to keep.
The horizon is stubborn, it refuses to move,
While I walk in the circles of a familiar groove.
Is it for a person, or a change in the wind?
Or for a new life that is yet to begin?
The leaves turn to copper and fall to the ground,
While I stand in the center without making a sound.
Expectation is a flame that flickers and dies,
Reflected in the mirror of my tired eyes.
But still, I remain with my back to the wall,
Ready to answer if I hear the call.
For the greatest of things don't come with a shout,
They are the ones we can't live without.