Day’s flow
Weaving their way into perceptions
Some days I can’t help but force
To ignite a need for outcome, to satisfy
To push against the wall ahead, breaking fingers and scarring knuckles
Day’s ebb
Confined spaces only contract as I grow
Some days, what’s the point?
Our hopes dwindle as the air thickens but we never stop
Atoms swell, caressing our view
And stone fears must be carved into tools
Then we are useful, our use becomes much more than 9-5
And we may follow gravel paths walked before
Recognising our footprints
Knowing all too well
And days link from one to the next
But each brings a new taste, a new scent from buds blossoming
And we learn
We learn that the same may never need be the same again.
