Poem-A-Day: Day 310

54, 40, or Fight

Fifty years too late
but not one more than never
having gotten anything in the first place.

I remember the years as days and days
sequentially lined up marching
bloodied soldiers ready.

The days blend easily
insipid transitions forgettable
from the same that’s been the last one.

A straight white line bright as the day
or some twisted beam of light
refracted and reflected.

It almost goes on forever
but meets an end at the horizon
falling down to completely disappear.

I’ve yet to see the reappearance of it
of nature bringing it back
returning the light.

But the days go by
transitioning from light to dark
and back to light and dark once more.

Once more remembering the last time
the last fifty years or forty gone
but not forever past.