Every Day That Passes
Every day is one day closer…
TVs going day/night long
Kinships growing global round – not stronger –
Weaker.
Bags of sand that weigh us down,
We are conditioned beings
With no meaning in
The breadth of meanings;
Non-constructive, non-productive days
To steer us towards a netherworld…
We dither
And we wither.
It’s just me the poet
Talking from my room – a nightime gloom –
A silliness. All death and doom.
Don’t share it if you won’t.
Each day may open faith to one.
© Every Day That Passes 11.28.2010
A Sense of the Ridiculous; Birth, Death&InBetween; Our Times, Our Culture;
Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 