A Thread Hanging Off the Back

It sticks, it clings

It waits patiently

more so than any other

It just sits. It creeps.

It waits for the moment

to be less than it is

to calm, and rest, to wait

It rests on the end of a

Thread and holds on

life is of no importance

it sits and watches

through closed eyes

It sits and watches through

a barely clenched fist

that will not easily open

It sits and waits

for a moment to turn into

more than a moment,

then it stretches the moment out

longer

and longer

and longer

and longer

until the moment was

so long ago it is now a new moment

and that moment could be

longer

and longer

and longer

and longer

until it is a time

a spell

a waiting

and it is longer

and longer

and longer

and longer

and longer

and we sit and indulge

for there is nothing else to do,

is there?

No, not likely

we can sit

and wait

and wait

and wait

and wait

and then it is another day

and then why bother?

There’s no real reason

after all, it’s just another day

to sit and watch nothing go by

for there’s not really anything to watch

so sit and wait

and wait

and wait

and wait

and wait

and wait

and then, it’s another week, maybe a month

Who’s to know anymore?

Does it matter?

No, not likely,

so watch the nothing traverse the space

between the nothing and the next

and find that there wasn’t

any reason

to move

in the

first

place.

Sloth

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