A voice inside asks:
Did the sun rise again?
Another asks:
What of it,
doesn’t it always?
And so the dialogue goes.
The mind is a swamp.
Some days are bright.
Some days ****.
Yet being alive
is worth something.
What?
Did the sun rise again?
Are the flowers pretty?
Are there birds flying?
Are there clouds in the blue sky?
Be quiet.
Thank them.