and acrid memories embrace

the hollow echo of morning traffic.

Non-conforming dreams


like the irrelevant patchwork of old buildings.

I savor the air.

Too brief,

passing for lack of time;

dying without fulfillment;

left behind by routine struggle.


floats between halcyon days

and a steady grip.

Hands greet railings

like old friends,

comforting one another on a long journey.

Alongside steps I’ve taken


clings to peeling paint on sun-dried wood.

So far I’ve been…

How much further still?


© Michael D. Day   –  March 5, 2010

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