Why the days play the day
like a tape
I’ve heard just a few days ago?
Why when the evening
touches your memory
it’s like it’s touched
just like before?
And when the moon
holding night’s finger reasons
ain’t it like we’ve reasoned all before?
The morn waits with its stale bread.
The mirror with familiar eyes.
Day peeks through the keyhole,
another one, waiting
to devour some more soul.
