Upon the doorstep of today
I met a man on his way
To the the world of yesterday

I asked him why he'd return
To a day with nothing more to learn
All I got was a look ever so stern

There is more in the past
Which we miss with time so fast
So dig deep into your memory cast

In each memory there's something missed
Upon you forehead it could have kissed
Go for a walk down memory lane, I insist

But there is one place I shall go
Where we will meet and see a show
And that is the day of tomorrow

Soon the wells would run dry
Not enough to fill a pitcher
The juice of the planet depleting
When every drop counts
Precious life it holds- a magic potion
For it is the stream of life
How deep can we dig
Before we can revive the wells
Not enough
Until rains fill the Earths crucible
We cannot let the wells go dry
Nothing to drive us forward
Drops of tears will not be enough

The lights are fended off
By the iron curtains
Everything becomes brittle
On the verge of breakdown
The last will to stand up
Is robbed by the tyranny
Hope is an oasis
In the midst of the desert

should i take azoth
to cure my sloth

it may well make
my mind like quicksilver
send me messages from
the mouths of gods
at round about 80wpm
or will it just make my moods mecurial
and put little beads
of silver sweat acroos
my furrowed brow
with it's inherent toxicity

if i take a dose of azoth
or liquid cinnabar.
i may live fast,
but i won't live long...
my old friend paracelsus
tells me "the dose makes
the poison" and in this he
is right.

i might skip the azoth.....
and the cinnibar liquid too
go for coffee instead....
or could just succumb
to sloth and stay in bed.

i found this little poem
sitting unattended,
alone,
on a bench at
the bus station.

when i said hello...
the relief and elation,
on this little poem's face,
made me feel protective
of this, orphan creation.

so i took this little poem
home...
no longer lost,
it thrived
from three lines to five
and before
we wished it
happy cinquain
it had doubled in size,
again.

full, rounded verse,
in cursive copperplate.
as it entered puberty
its moods swung,
between...
love, anger, hate
and then struggled gamely through
depression angst and fear..
all jots and tittles,
with future, unclear.

but eventually it matured
as we all do....
into a thoughtful expression
of beauty and love,
a strong and independant
statement of grace.

and then it was time,
to say goodbye....
the little found poem,
needed to leave
and find it's place,
in the wider world.
needed to find
and impress a girl.

it said it needed,
to make a splash...
grab some cash...
it promised not
to become, just a jingle...

and to write when
he could....

but til then.... anon...