Wait.

"Wait".

An oft-heard word associated with patience tottering on a fine line. Time scratches its own sweet time while Wait is in session. An arcanum in the wings, we linger to seek its prostrate finity amongst the infinite, perhaps in fruitless pursuit of a chimera long abandoned.

What feeds the swollen embonpoint is hope in the pipeline. Perpetuating a reward to be reaped, we wait to feast on the appropriated benison, if any. By the impeccable gaucherie netted within suspense, a propounded osculation is not far from our clutches.

Or so, we think.

Instead of bearing witness to a comical disjunction between roseate myth and gritty reality, Wait masquerades as a stage extra, whereby choice has little.

Trounced upon quixotically, the emergent imbroglio is nothing but a dead knot.

Despite this subterfuge, we ignore its slight and cloak ourselves in anodyne aplomb till intent dwindles.

Only then, do we scramble to fill the cipher.

Erstwhile, there is little to do, but to wait.