Waiting

He sat under a tree, waiting, as the moon begins to hide it’s mournful face behind the curtain of night. He is waiting. And as he waits, an owl flew past him like a dreamy shadow; searching for those who are sitting, waiting, and finding themselves in a world that demands them to search, and wait, and wait.

The moon is drown; and so is he, in his own sea of phantasm, which will never come to be.