Seasons

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I'm waiting for this broken clock,
It's hands refuse to move.
I try and push them past midnight,
To see only time disproved.

I'm waiting to start drifting north,
My compass points towards a star,
Should it alight, or it ignite,
It seems the same when I'm this far.

I'm waiting in this redundant room,
The lights strewn across the christmas tree,
As the emptiness around is consumed.
By the flashing compliant colours, unpredictably,


I'm waiting to open the present, vacantly
And in preparation I take a guess,
As to what would be inside.
But nothing's waiting under the tree,
Nothing sitting set aside,
Nothing that I can access,
And nothing has been left untried,
There are no knots to be untied,
There are is no failure, and yet no success,
The clock's at zero, I must confess.





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