Waiting

These weeks bend, bowlike, below my pen,
the decision falling to ‘when’,
now,  not ‘how’; a white limbic hell
of my own design, this red bell
of time behind my eyes,: it’s a vast fen

of waiting beyond stasis’ broad halls.
No, no, not hell – only when doubt calls
in a yellow voice from a den
with roots burrowed deep within yen
and the world’s history of fallen walls.

These weeks bend, bowlike, below my pen,
funneling with sloth’s measure, and then
darting, a blackbird from a dell
in the meadow of distraction well
hidden from my gathering farewell.

I’ve followed Dante Gabrielle Rossetti’s style of Quintain (3 stanzas, 5 lines per stanza, syllable structure 9, 8, 8, 9 and rhyme scheme of a, a, b, b,, a – c, c, a, a, c – a, a, b, b, a) although I have used a little poetic freedom in the final line. Just because.