Each day the memories are more vacant,
I’m driving down lanes that have with each
Set become more intangible.
The sun seems to leech the existence out of mine.

Each day is another trial of waiting,
Not sure what though,
Could it be trouble, conquest?
Thought. Drive. Me. Home.

Each day is a lament to my dreams,
Suffered and died in the past,
Sorrows filled on too many cups,
And worries fled on hazy smoke.

But
Each day has brought light
Blurred sight captured oxygen
Wavering lights twisting in organic dances
And wither with wooden swirls
In my room and in the once-swamped vale.
Here.

Each day is another dream
Taken from the end of a toilet paper tunnel
Rotated around and around used,
Till only the blank brown surrounds
And then tossed away,
The tunnel’s vision was a false one.

Each day reminds me that the sight saw
Was only a tinier version of what reality is,
Would dreams have a similar effect,
Only glimpses of the entire existence of the picture
Twisted around and around, around, around,
Done?

Each day is my memory,
Resurfaced and tossed,
Broken and used
Fences and ditches,
Passes and gates
No more
And yet
Each day,
Is a Day
Worthy,
Of creating more memories.

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