Dreary days always seem to put me in the mood to think
I know some might realize I always think way too much
But without the warmth and glow of the sun to help me
There are times when my fingers the keys need to touch.
We can remember some things as an instant in time
Others seem the minutes crawl by excruciatingly slow
We are all given the same number of hours in a day
Looking back, what have we done, do our efforts show.
Everyone I know cherishes their time off
So my weekends mix time to work and play
But too often when the sun rises after that
It heralds forth what I call Morose Monday.
Gone – what does that word mean to you
Something displaced or something through
Is it something that you can get to come back
Or a train that has gone down another track.
How deep is your love, can it be measured
Is it for one alone, or is it something shared
One would hope it is strong enough to last
Otherwise it will be a memory in our past.
Have you ever pondered the question
Why a terminal patient hangs on so long
Is it ingrained in us to cling so hard to life
Is our wanting suffering to end so wrong.
Poet's Corner 