Marking Time


The outsider plays along,

Spending each day with necessary tasks,

But never belonging.

He never bought in.

A flukish return

Not of his choosing.

Twice now.

Dripping with irony.

All things happen for a reason.

Or do they?

A hiatus,

A way station.

Winding the days away,

Making a new path,

Still working, creating.

Waiting.

Looking forward to some place else

Away from this strange land

Where he never fit in.

Never settling,

Always marching

Toward the goal.

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