I supposed it a Thursday
and a Thursday it be,
should have supposed
under the tree.
In the shallows of an Autumn morn
where the silver light of day is spawned
and the golden cries of childhood born,
I am torn out of my sleep.
And nothing can protect me from
those that would direct me into
darkness and despair,
I supposed it was a Thursday,
but I really do not care.
© 2019, John Smallshaw.