Waiting.
For what?
Hanging like spiders
blown by the winds,
the waves
against which we plan precarious futures,
spinning out webs in the ebbs and the flows,
spinning out webs,
spinning out.
Familiar, distant visions
dissipate as sand trickles
through this collective moment of pause,
suspended,
like spiders blown by the waves,
the gusts,
rocking from past to future and
settling not in between.
Not yet.
First Wave
Second Wave
Third Wave
How many Waves?
Still hanging, the spider
blown by the Waves, the gusts,
sharper, becoming
sharper still as our loneliness echoes
louder and louder with each passing month.
How many months has it been again?
The texture of time at this point so foreign,
priorities different
from the momentum of lives we once had,
the forces disturbed, seeking new balance
negotiations at play
between what was there, now impossible
and the possible not yet there.
Not yet.
Individualists in insular cities full to the brim,
crowded, spaced out, further still
by the vastness of this solitude
grappling with our totality,
grappling with it more than before.
Is the spider still there?
Is she alive?
Is her thin string still holding her,
rocking along
with the
First Wave
Second Wave
Third Wave
How many Waves?