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

Fade away,

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

Image by Monoar Rahman Rony from Pixabay

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