There is no relief when regarding
the loss of time.
Festivals pass without notice like
nameless night trains.
The moon offers no concern
for words and unkempt phrases.
Seasons are unacquainted
with your sorrow or joy,
or the bruises received.
Whispers and half closed eyes
remain suspicious in the
deepening fray of night when your
pillow absorbs disappointments
and the sheets suffer indifference.
The day is yawning. Find the coffee
and open the door.
Roger Singer 