The days go on and on for ages,
Every evening a tiny Sunday.
Tomorrow fades in dreams of pages.
Words and syllables leak into beds
Staining night sheets a satin blue.
But the days go on and on for ages.
Reading between lines for worlds that invite
every night to dip into fables.
And tomorrow fades in dreams of pages.
Bound to one life, finding
furtive freedom in fiction, where
the days can go on and on for ages
and the evenings have not sapped me
of rest, where there is meaning still, and
tomorrow has not faded in reams
of pages of newsprint and wages
that have to be wrought, but alas!
The ageless days go on and on,
and tomorrows merge into a marathon.
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