The repetition of these days,
The rhythm I find my steps falling into,
The beat I tell myself to follow,
The tempo I feel I am steadily building,
As I hope for a new crescendo,
All sometimes halt.
And I reflect on the moment I am in,
The minutes which have pushed me
Steadily, slowly, indirectly along.
In this moment,
It all feels pointless. Meaningless.
Like nothing but this same tune is up ahead.
Oh, let me find a reason
For this new poem I’ve spilled out;
The meandering verses I’ve written,
The cellophane words I’ve said.
–Written by Sandy Heights