The Lethal Weapon

He sat waiting for the right time.

It never came; she left.

He sat in the same chair for years.

He dreamt about visiting Paris.

He felt a sharp pain in his left arm; he died.

They wanted to build a snow man,

But snow fell to fall at the right time.

When they tried, the kids were too old for that.

It might be partially the fault of time,

But waiting might be the worst enemy.

 Beatriz Meza (C) 12/19/2015

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About B. Meza

Writing is liberating.
This entry was posted in Poesía, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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