Each day, another question asked.
Answers revealed only subtly.
Wondering how many days have passed,
waiting to get some sort of rebuttal.

Pounding away in the forges of confusion,
questions swirl around in the smoke.
Just a smith to get the resolution,
to get out if this before I choke.

The hand extended is the escape.
I want to take it without hesitation.
Will the hand I reach partake?
My heart aches at my procrastination.

I wrote this poem quickly for a Creative Writing class prompt. I can be rather terrible at rhyming.

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