Here we go again. Back in the place where they torture hope.
Waiting for my numbers in some perverse kind of lottery.
Fate written in a computer print-out, a lab report, a post it.
Shrodinger’s baby, neither dead nor alive until that next scan.
How can I possibly make those 48 hours pass quicker?
In a previous life I would have filled this hole with alcohol.
Instead I’m just left with my unstoppable thoughts.
And the soft lonely splintering of my heart.
© Catastraspie, 2017.