subtext

Like an old ox under yoke who pulls

Again, and again, until he cannot

Pull any longer; then stops, and waits

as if waiting were an art to be

savored, instead of endured like pain,

I’m frayed, worn thin from being;

From what I’ve been; from who I am.

I wait caught in quandary’s eddy,

Without knowing what I wait upon.

I linger over every trivial decision,

As if all time stood still and waited

For permission to take the tatters,

And transform into someone new.

I must move; yet I wait, afraid to move.