Tomorrow is too soon.
Its always the day after that I want.
Westerners discontent.
Our circumstances madly tumbling urban variables,
tucked behind glass walls.
Mother nature lends rein to man,
so lost in the spider's web.
Choices made and
Choices given,
Written and stamped, stand captured.
The past:
Man and woman the sum of their days,
hours of secret dread,
replayed in private,
wishful of another conclusion
moments so sourly sweet too long ago,
too lost to youth,
once squandered freely.
when oblivious to loss.
The Present
the estimable future of ideas,
the precious lair of dreams
birthed here,
fragile, pretty things, that sparkle and amuse us,
in ever increasing play
creating puzzles for tomorrow.
The Future
The currency of hope,
the blind man's credit.
Where dreams bold enough to enter can begin,
but only in the day after that become
which all too soon dissolves into tomorrow.
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