Is this it,
A heart to maim.
Every breath, the blood does drain,
Playing this damn waiting game.
In such maelstrom, amongst the fog,
In such vain, a useless cog,
For once the waiting will cease,
The ironing out, at the crease,
It all just continues plodding along,
No standstill, end, fuss or song.
Barely memory, hardly a sign,
Not even a shadow, a faint outline.
That is it.
Otiose, but It.