Five fingers.
Five fingers too late, and an empty plate.
Wasted day.
Wasted fate, wasted away.
They say it’s always darkest before morning,
Yet dawn is a moment that we sleep through.
We miss it,
We reel it in with fishing rods,
We wish it near,
We kiss it when it’s here.
But we are usually too busy to see it,
Our beady eyes focused on reliving the past.
Misery will attach like a leech.
And regret is a creep
Who lurks in the woods behind maple leaves.
Above closed eyelids
Does hope make a home.
Overcoming what’s been done
Is not a race of hare and tortoise,
It’s the bullet of a gun.
I am a foreign song,
Resident of a place I don’t belong.