Anticipation
Soon, soon, but not quite yet
Time dripping like a leaking tap
Its droplets seeping quietly away
A death-march dissipation
But not diminishing the span
Of the open interval
Before the consummation
So very nearly there
But not yet docked at the destination
My nerves jingling
Tingling in the finger-ends
The tumour of fear and worry
Gently growing within, building
Sending staccato signals
Through my trembling limbs
The anticipation of what might be
Or which may never happen at all
Yet the unbearableness of not knowing
Fearing the worst, wondering what may come
From around the next corner
The active mind plays its awful tricks
Thinking and guessing
Hoping and dreading
Worrying and waiting
I find myself holding my breath
Then the relief of exhalation
Dithering and shaking
So that I cannot settle
Nor find a way to rest
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