Let me wait, still and alone, 
When I'm ragged skin and twisted bone, 
Like carrion amid the waste land; 
Let me wait, alone in the deserted streets, 
My shock and missed heartbeats 
At empty gas-lit nights in cold single sleeping bag beds 
And dustbin lid dinners with rubbish buffet spreads: 
An empty heartbeat stalking me with ringing reverb
Repeating in this stinking suburb
That amounts to underwhelming wonderment... 

I hear your question: "Who is it?" 
Have no fear. He will commit... 

In the shadows Spectres slowly flit 
Like some ghostly hypocrites. 

The greying mist heckling the waning sickle moon, 
The bluish twisting mist howling at the waning sickly moon, 
As if its howl could penetrate all four corners of the heavens 
It masquerades as something from a special afternoon 
In uptown cafes, in best bib and tucker, drinking 
With uptown company stirred like silver teaspoons 
Mixed up in some summer malady long ago 
That raised its muzzle into canine lamenting tune. 

And as I remain, fixed, a statue in mime, 
I'll let out the howling cry - as if it will be heard - 
A howl that may twist the moon's sickly spirit; 
As if any howl that's mimed can ever be heard, 
Ape the undeclared message silently conferred; 
I'll mime the waiter, waiting, deferential, antiquate, 
And mime the listener hearkening to busy hands 
Flashing out the transparent feast upon an empty plate. 
Miming me miming you, 
And miming out all the many actions 
Leading to the miming out of dissatisfactions, 
Before the waiter smashes all the plates. 

In the shadows Spectres slowly flit 
Like some ghostly hypocrites. 

And if I mime in my recline 
Will I ponder "why I wait?" and "Why I mime?" - 
Waiting offers plenty grounds to rake regret 
With martyrs singing misery in duet, 
The waiting can afford to criticise and demonise 
That howling at the moon they so despise, 
A howling that they never utilise, 
Remaining constant until the relieving sunrise. 
So shall I wait 
In eternal silent debate? 
In my waiting I will mime 
The clowning and the frowning I create. 

For in that waiting and creating I have lived a life: 
Lived to shape my daily slog of air plays alone 
To blindly shuffle out all the shapes I've thrown. 
I heard me questioning myself to the afterlife, 
Asked many things I already dismissed; 
Asked myself: Do I still exist? 

And though I wait and create I live a life 
Even without the sense of belonging. 
And in belonging I stand transfixed 
When carving in the wall another notch with my knife. 
So how can questioning myself be fixed 
When asking myself the question I am longing; 
Asking myself: Did I ever exist? 

And I want to wait and create to live my life - 
A life that could get answers when he arrives 
And breathe into me a breath that revives. 
I suppose that's why I insist 
On wondering if we exist? 
And looking into the eyes of another 
Could this be a brother? 
Could this be the other? 

Well, its true, then. That I have howled aloud at the moon 
And sat and listened to the echo of the void 
Of me alone, waiting, waiting. Waiting. 

I should have mimed that too 
But that would never do. 

And even now the waiting continues, 
Propped up on the hope for answers 
Ailments... Disease... Cancers... 
I lie out like a slowly dying man 
That knows the answers deep inside 
And knows that no one answers anymore, 
No one will come knocking on my door. 
But hope still gnaws emptiness more 
And evokes that drowning howl, guttural, feral 
Leaving me and the moon in great peril. 
I will wait on still for the man with all the knowledge, 
The one that has definitely been to college, 
To put me out of my misery. 

Was the misery worth it? 
Miming out all the mistakes I made? 
Miming out a great internal debate 
That I threw up later on a plate 
And served it up, like a faithful waiter, 
Who waits just in reach, just to serve, 
Just to wipe your chin, as you deserve, 
And wait patiently for you to finish, 
Clear up the mess as you diminish 
And say was it worth it? Was it worth the pain? 

Was the waiting, creating and debating, worth it? 
Could I have done something better? 
After all these long years of yearning for knowledge, 
I could have left, I could have travelled far. 
But now I'm propping up a bar, 
An empty bar without a drink, 
Without a glass or a space to think? 
Without the waiter, waiting for me 
To take a well deserved cup of tea, 
To slowly brew within the pot, thinking: 
Was it worth it? Was it worth the pain? 

The pain is such a constant thing, 
Holding me on a course to new thoughts 
And new ideas, and new questions, 
Questions without answers, until he comes 
And offers many other suggestions. 
And offers directions out of the slums 
And offers many different reports 
About my conducts on matters of life 
And how I wasted it waiting. 

Waiting... Waiting... 
I would have been better painting... 

But I am waiting. How will I know when he is here? 
I will probably be asleep then, and miss his arrival. 
He could have already been, I was too concerned with my survival 
To notice he didn't want to talk to me... 

I should have known it when the moon didn't return my howl. 
I should have known it was inevitable as the passing hours 
And see his passing in the dying flowers. 

I should have known the answers to my questions lie 
Deep in my stopped heart turning my blood from red to brown 
Till the answers come flooding and I drown.

Waiting for Godot, written by Samuel Beckett, premiered in Paris on this day in 1953.

T. S. Eliot, British poet, essayist, playwright and critic, died yesterday in 1965.