Patience.

Patience.

You hand out plans as if managing thy hell's days.
I wait and suffer.
Or even better said, a manager via his team's plays.
I wait and suffer.

Tulips could bloom and fall to a crisp, yet thy will still be no where around. The sun's rays could taint perfection, and beauty will no longer be found.
I wait and suffer.

You ask for patience as if you hold no choice, yet expect me to be happy for one's paining rejoice. A voice i no longer know, a face that has gone unseen, poise no longer straight; no trace of my own being.
I wait and suffer.

If flowers burned and lives withered, would you wait as I did? Like the slaves who watched thy "masta" rape their kid. Or would you sin and ask for forgiveness, on knees so vile. Or would you rid of it all, then walk the green mile?

Angels leave trails of dust, whilst demons make flame. All i knew of you is gone, but your name. That damned name that stings at my throat with its own conceited vault of shame.

I wait and suffer.

Would you?

Patience.