It’s the wanting of waiting that wearies
Delaying what’s dear, making it dreary
Hope planted in the garden of need
Has produced only sterile weed
Exposing care to sudden dissolution
That what was happily about to occur
Is just a mirage from which now to demur
A make believe turned into grieve
Forcing abandonment of hunger for fit
Leaving it sucking on a stiff wooden tit
Trying desperately to conform
To what can’t ever be warmed
As if pretending adorned with riches
What had been suckled by witches
