Delay is the Deadliest form of Denial

In the kitchen, like all minor tragedies,

the hands of the clock move, then hesitate.

My coffee cools, a thin skin on the top—

outside, the postman lingers by the gate.

In the attic, boxes gather dusk and cobwebs,

a note from my mother unread for years.

Every task deferred, each promise postponed,

becomes a quiet shadow on the wall.

The garden overflows with unchecked vines,

an unpruned rosebush tilts towards the sky.

In the hallway, a spider builds her web

patiently between walls of inaction.

Messages unanswered—like unopened books,

lean unbalanced on the crowded shelf,

falling into the abyss of intention.

The phone rings once, then stops, a reminder

of things unsaid piling like fallen leaves,

under the weight of an encroaching silence.

So why search the horizon, scan the sea,

when the reply sits heavy, close at hand?

Tomorrow waits with its thinly veiled hope,

a mirage that fades as we approach it.

Delay: the gentlest thief cloaked in comfort,

stealing moments we think we can afford.