An Oftentimes Fool

If there was grass anymore it would be soft here.

If there was a sun anymore it would be golden silk on the horizon.

If there was life anymore there would be fireflies dancing like tiny fallen stars.

So many days wasted banking on the empty promise of tomorrow.

Oftentimes I would let the day die and the moon rise unnoticed as I toiled at something unimportant.

“Not today, brother”, I’d say. Maybe tomorrow, next weekend, another day. 

Well, tomorrow’s come, and where are you?

Dead.

And the follies of the good old days are a knife inside my chest.