The Hours of the Day

What to do with empty days so full of empty thoughts?
The world in which a weary haze hangs limply as it rots.
And so much more have I to do, yet nothing is now done.
How I wish to be with you, to see the shining sun.
But now today is cold and chill with vague misgivings here.
The warmth of touch I wait for still, but wait with partial fear.
“Afraid of what?” I ask myself, but I do not respond.
It’s like that book upon the shelf unread, so I despond.
I hear again the haunting voice of one so distant, loved.
But here I’ve found so little choice, from her I feel I’m shoved.

Oh could it be that apathy has finally found me?
Or is true that I love you, but knew not what to do?

This wasted time crawls at my feet, refusing to go on.
And yet tomorrow will retreat before the coming dawn.
And what of that? What will I do, so weary as I’ll be?
So lazy, fat and long passed new—my soul inside of me.
It mocks me as it haunts me so, the hours of the day.
The value of a moment. Woe, for I delay.
I long for things that I have seen so long ago by now.
But who will show me everything? And then I query, “How?”
There is no need to end these lines to mesh with scheduled time.
But if continue symbol, signs, they’ll cease then to be mine.

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