Sometimes nothing is needed more
Than a moment's rest from
The constant commotion
Burrowed in the heel of
The stride of life

But then,
In other instances,
The spaces in life seem
To speak more than
The chaotic comfort
Found in a
Crowded mind

In these stale places,
Waiting for something to
Move or something to
Mold, there is
A lull

This lull,
The one between happenings,
Lurks just behind where
The eye can see,
Haunting memories
Of what could be

It traces with a
Cold touch
Outlines of a
Past mistake which
Begs to be forgotten,
And it demands
Control over drawing
Maps leading to
A future meeting
Where truths will
Hang mutely at the edge
Of familiar lips

Suspended in this space
Between places
There is revealed a greater pain
In the Wait than
In actual confrontation

Lulls lead to bleeding
And pleading
For something -
Even the destructive -
To simply happen
And let escape the tension
That thrives in such
Twisted times of impatience

Sometimes nothing is needed more
Than a moment's rest from
The impenetrable silence
Burrowed in the space
Between happenings