Monday, March 23, 2009

Never has the dawn been painted so bleakly
Nor the nighttime been such a soft shade
Without being a cynic there’s no way to put it
As each hour passes the colors slowly fade

Not once has each morning been such a chore
Nor each evening held nothing but woe
It seems that with age something deeper is snapped
And each moment I encounter a new kind of foe

Never before has each second ticked by so slowly
And days at a time pass, unnoticed, unseen
The constant thrum of headache is never so musical
Whether or not you can discern the dream

Surprisingly now I can feel myself smile
Searching, then, for days to discover the source
Time creates its questions, and the simplest answer
Is that I should be an actress, of course