Day becomes night and in the lamplight I write until my eyelids are drooping, but it’s a carefully managed addiction
perfectly suited to a man who’s seen action and prefers now to take it a bit slow.
The heart beats a bit faster every time that I master a rhyme
pity that time is not on my side.
In a light year or two if I finally get through the wormhole
where my soul is sure to be waiting
I’m hoping that someone will put a word in for me
to the majesty of infinity.
But the night is finite and soon dawn will appear
or it has done before, but who knows?
© 2018, John Smallshaw.