The Art of Waiting
The world slows down at the edge of a line,
Where feet shuffle and clocks conspire.
Time drips like honey from a broken comb,
Each second a spark that won’t catch fire.
At bus stops and doorways, we linger in pause,
Fingers tapping on glass-lit screens.
The wait becomes a quiet confession,
An offering of space where the unseen convenes.
Seasons of waiting stretch out like dusk,
When the world holds its breath for a sign.
The slow fade of twilight from amber to blue,
Teaches patience in the softest design.
It’s here, in the stillness, that wisdom resides—
Lessons only silence can bring.
The art of waiting is not about time,
But about noticing the shift in everything.
On a platform at dawn, the sky blushes first,
Soft plum to rose to a burst of gold flame.
No one claps for the sky’s quiet debut,
But I’ve learned that beginnings have no shame.
The hum of the train in the distance grows,
Not seen, but its presence is clear.
Like change on the edge of an unseen horizon,
It’s felt in the heart before it draws near.
In the doctor’s office, the room holds its breath,
Fingers fidget with seams of coats.
Here, waiting is heavier—a threadbare thread,
Pulled tight between whispers and hopes.
But even in these places of doubt and delay,
There’s an elegance hidden in pause.
The world does not crumble for want of a sign,
Nor do flowers rush to unseal their jaws.
I’ve seen rivers erode the hardest of stones,
Not with force, but with patience’ slow grace.
I’ve seen frost carve ferns on cold windowpanes—
Artistry drawn in the quietest space.
The child waits, counting clouds in the sky,
Fingers splayed wide to name every shape.
To them, time’s not a cage, but a canvas
Where dragons and castles and angels escape.
The art of waiting is the art of seeing,
Of living not ahead, but within.
For every line we stand in, every clock we watch,
Is a threshold where endings begin.
So, I’ll wait by the shore where the tide pulls away,
Watch the horizon dissolve into sea.
Not every arrival comes with a herald’s cry—
Some just whisper, "You’ve been waiting for me."
Where feet shuffle and clocks conspire.
Time drips like honey from a broken comb,
Each second a spark that won’t catch fire.
At bus stops and doorways, we linger in pause,
Fingers tapping on glass-lit screens.
The wait becomes a quiet confession,
An offering of space where the unseen convenes.
Seasons of waiting stretch out like dusk,
When the world holds its breath for a sign.
The slow fade of twilight from amber to blue,
Teaches patience in the softest design.
It’s here, in the stillness, that wisdom resides—
Lessons only silence can bring.
The art of waiting is not about time,
But about noticing the shift in everything.
On a platform at dawn, the sky blushes first,
Soft plum to rose to a burst of gold flame.
No one claps for the sky’s quiet debut,
But I’ve learned that beginnings have no shame.
The hum of the train in the distance grows,
Not seen, but its presence is clear.
Like change on the edge of an unseen horizon,
It’s felt in the heart before it draws near.
In the doctor’s office, the room holds its breath,
Fingers fidget with seams of coats.
Here, waiting is heavier—a threadbare thread,
Pulled tight between whispers and hopes.
But even in these places of doubt and delay,
There’s an elegance hidden in pause.
The world does not crumble for want of a sign,
Nor do flowers rush to unseal their jaws.
I’ve seen rivers erode the hardest of stones,
Not with force, but with patience’ slow grace.
I’ve seen frost carve ferns on cold windowpanes—
Artistry drawn in the quietest space.
The child waits, counting clouds in the sky,
Fingers splayed wide to name every shape.
To them, time’s not a cage, but a canvas
Where dragons and castles and angels escape.
The art of waiting is the art of seeing,
Of living not ahead, but within.
For every line we stand in, every clock we watch,
Is a threshold where endings begin.
So, I’ll wait by the shore where the tide pulls away,
Watch the horizon dissolve into sea.
Not every arrival comes with a herald’s cry—
Some just whisper, "You’ve been waiting for me."
- Khushi Kaul
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