- Books, Literature, and Writing
We Do Not Care Anymore
to pass the time,
To share the company,
To numb the boredom of our absence, while
Each is apart from the other.
And while we're away, reminiscing,
(‘Though not as before,)
Everything has become routine and comfortable in our life:
You with yours, me with mine,
And, together we waste ‘ours.'
THE days grow longer,
Contrasting smartly ‘gainst
the cold and the dampness,
Of the evenings swiftly chased away.
Birds chat freely, though not to me,
And amidst all their joviality I still find myself asking:
"Little bird, why do you sing
When you know the days are not always going to be
sunshine and dandelions?"
All around me flowers nervously spread their pedals,
Cautious, like the nervous virgin,
Parting her legs for the very first time.
The sky's only color is blue,
Save the nicotinesque glow accompanying the sun,
Upon its lazy pursuit of rest and slumber, behind the buildings of this old town.
The people I pass nod but they sternly do not smile.
Do they not know how?
Perhaps life has not afforded them the reasons they desire.
AND, now all memory of today has gone.
The street lamps went on an hour ago,
The waning moon appeared, briefly
Through the dusk-driven clouds.
THE days must be spent in the reluctant pursuit, of
Of nights we've come to regret.
That elusive safe-haven of yesterday,
We now regard as colder than before.
We know tomorrow will someday come,
'Though we just don't care anymore.
© 2013 Three Doves Media, LLC