Waiting Room

The fluorescent lights flicker, a false dawn,

every tick of the clock weighs heavy, drawn.

A half-closed magazine lies on the table,

its pages curled like a prayer gone unstable.

Whispers echo, but they never quite land,

as time creeps like a patient’s steady hand.

Friends in their chairs, like ghosts we pretend,

each moment hangs thick, waiting to bend.

I hold my breath, a silent plea,

for news that sits heavy, like a weight in the chest.

The air, so dense, a reminder of dread,

as I sit here, half-alive, filled with what’s said.