If death is still distant,
If the end is years away,
If rest hides
Within a future I can’t imagine,
And someday, no matter when,
It will feel too soon to
Why does every day in the present
Seem filled with so little time?
Why am I always torn between
A free-flowing stanza
And metered line?
Why am I always letting you down?
Reaching too far?
And wasting words that could rhyme?
—Written by Sandy Heights