Poetry

The day is unwilling to break open,
as slices like a orange,
unwilling to let me bite
into its centre, in to its deep core
 
and time finds wings,
passing ever passing
without me accomplishing
the things that I set out to do
to which I sometimes set my heart to
 
and I can hardly tell the distinction
between heaven and hell,
between good and bad
as emotions are on a rollercoaster
under the spell, attraction
of falling in love
where it is judged to be inappropriate
 
and happiness eludes, escapes me,
as well as beauty,
or what I find beautiful and lovely
and am I now harkening to small petty blessings
and have to be content with little things
as if the things that gives meaning to life
are reserved for someone else
 
and the sky, the veldt the world
of my own heart yearns for more
besides motion, hue and actions
that responsibilities draw,
I yearn for you, for your love
and the blessing of your tender caress.
 
[Reference: “The Glory” by Edward Thomas.]