The mornings will not start, the sparks appear with the sprouts but there is no fuel in the tank, there is nothing to light. You find an old letter, 26 years but the handwriting is still yours, the wandering mind still familiar. How you saw the end of the world, how you asked where to spend its dying days, how the madness of power hungry men always seemed to eclipse the needs of the rest.
You still have to live, is the thing.
You still have to carry on until your dying day. The days will not die for you.
Might as well do something with the time you have
left.
No comments:
Post a Comment