It is a trial

It is a trial

This waiting

For the world’s end

If redemption is a dream

How will I know

Answers are in short supply

Questions remain open

To hermeneutic

Interpretation

Breathing takes effort

In a heavy atmosphere

There is no humour

In gravity

It brings one down.

Holding on to

The belief

Help will come

Competes with the

Experience

Of other tourists

Who have their own

Fear of destinations

With which to cope.

I travel in hope

It is not an easy path

Nobody knows

Which direction is up

The construction

Is a matter

For conjecture

The turning circle

Is not a clearly

Marked paradigm

As such

And pigeon holes

Are no protection

Against the rain.

Is this all

We have in the end

A place in a queue

Of questions

Each one louder

Than the last

Until nothing is heard

But the noise

Of one’s own confusion

Prickle my skin

It will tell

Me if I am still alive

The verdict

Is a long time coming

Waiting

Might well be

The death of me.