A wasted day waiting for perfection.
Staring at the mountains
green and dusty around the edges;
The sun’s rising
obscured by damp and grey defences;
Little illumination
penetrates to bring forth joys;
Has the day already been decided?
Staring at the snow white sheet
waiting for the words;
Imagination lost in the ebb
just beyond the groping enquiries;
Little inspiration
steps out of the dark entrances
looking for a flawless scaffold.
Staring at the flowers
fighting through the weeds,
Stunted by the fading foundations,
nests of decay;
Little seedlings
sent to their surrender
waiting for early birds to start their work.
Staring at the western peaks
green and dusty still,
The sun setting
in a glory elsewhere;
Little perfection
broke through to bring forth joys;
The day went as decided.
1994ever 