Waiting Game

He wove tanka from peacock wings,
through nimbus rings,
with cherry blooms,
on rainbow looms;

Filled glowing antiseptic walls,
with bird breath scrawls.
with whispered heat,
with braided feet;

Alone was just a waiting game,
always the same,
string beads of pain,
again, again.

Minute Poem (12 lines of 60 syllables- in 3 stanzas of 8-4-4-4 syllables each- with aabb/ ccdd/ eeff/ rhyme scheme). Inspired by this minute poem by ConsciousCacophony)