When will it be my time?
They all say soon, it’ll be your time
Such a wasteful word
Soon
As if the constant holding up of an eventual goodness is worth all the waking moments
Of hell
A blown off kiss from the future that will never be absolute
Brief moments drowned into the torrents of grey
The day to day
And soon should be the word of salvation
As if wanting it now is selfish
As if I’m waiting my turn
As if these moments are gracefully given to each in time as if there is a plan
So far in
Too far in to believe in anything
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