Gray Day

All's well, I guess. It ought to be.
The rain has stopped. The wind
Has died, and I don't have a lot
To do, but time seems burdensome
Today. The silence, which I often
Treasure, howls of absence. What
Is gone, a woman's voice, my peace
Of mind, the faith that I'll obtain
Fulfillment from the flailing I have
Done? I cannot read. I scan the
Floor. It's dirty, so I grab the broom
And sweep, and wonder why I do,
And why all seems unwell.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 51 times
Written on 2014-06-22 at 15:20

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