Last Day
It is the last day of AprilWhere rain is falling
Where poets are celebrated
For what is a daily calling
Spring flowers are blooming
Blue peonies scent
Rose buds crimson ascent
Grass is greening
Where inspirations fervor
Appears when least expected
As if natures awakening pleasure
Has created a moment affected
By a time of troubled afflictions
New growth is a hopeful sign
That final attempts at deception
Are recognized as not benign
A last day of celebration
Showcases what is everyday
For writers creation
There is no last day
It is a forever paradigm
It is like walking on a bed of nails
Where stabbing pain delivers time
For speaking about travails
That morph into a language
Of thoughts cascading
Into urgent dissolution of baggage
That spew soliloquies engaging
An audience that listens
For elements of identity
Seek a type of christening
Into depths of creativity
In this compulsion
There is no last day
There is no convention
Where thoughts are put away
There is only the next day
Poetry by Kee Zealy
Written on 2026-04-30 at 11:19
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