It comes, always, this new day that was tomorrow.
Its presence pressing on the soul, forcing being to the mould.
Now, paralysed in uncertainties harsh presence.
In thought we flee through the maze of mind, seeking a better place to be.
It comes, sometimes silken, sometimes orange all aglow.
Sapping urgent joy as grimly organisation spreads.
Happy thoughts, spontaneous disperse before its tread.
Seductive future stretches bare.
Tempting petty mind to mount.
With energy the plan is laid.
To be still born at present’s door.
It comes, always.
Through caverns of thought we traipse.
The echo? Faint the distant wail.
‘Tis the soul’s despair.
Petty pace? Not this!
From day to day a frantic whirl.
Poor play, but to its stage we cling.
In mind never letting the future unfurl.
It comes, always insidious it intrudes the bed, the thought
There, note it as the breathing next, regular, tells of things forsaken.
Freeman lies not here.
The future shrugs off the attempted rape leaving the mind agape at the void where the plan was to be.
In blind obedience we act.
Mere recognition of yesterday’s cognition.
Tragedy, not comic,
Trapped in webs we weave.
Onward! Onward! Day’s voices cry.
The plan will not fail!
Faint the distant wail.
If only we would hear.
It comes always, the new day that was tomorrow.
Silent, empty, bare.
With clamour and rush we seek to pare
The emptiness in which we might otherwise might find ourselves.
Tomorrow, then death; is that why we seek to but fill a life?
Its one ration unknowing of all that is joy, peace, reason and passion.
It comes, and with effort a thought.
To cleave the threads that the misplaced hope of organisation spreads.
To seek a soul in the caverns, not a plan.
Seeing today as it is.
Not as it looked from yesterday.
Maybe, today, we think today.
© 1998 Graham R. Little