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.


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