Monday, October 26, 2009

An Average Day
By: Chris Smallwood
(personal poem)

Entering the double doors I plunge into the years,
I reach familiar faces and remain in familiar places.
The faces jesting, the faces frantic,
the works due within the hour,
assigned on days past.
Voices shouting, of lies and slander,
of laughs and love, all which come to question.
Who is real?
Who is true?
And who belongs to who?
I belong with a group, yet only remain with one other,
friendly and on occasion words can be exchanged,
but actually aquainted,
I cannot say the same.

Through corridors of clamor
through elbows and sways,
I make my way through.
I reach the rooms where thought can grow
an grow it does.
It may grow in the way a wild weed grows,
it may grow with the beauty of a daffodil
as only I can observe.

Timeless times, and workless work,
the "day" is yet to end.
Words have passed, come and gone.
Tasks begot and tasks begone.
The final bell tolls
the final elbow rubbed,
a kiss goodbye then all is well.
All is well that ends well.

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