There Are Days
The rite of passage defining maturity.
The gradual acceptance of the burdens and the consequences
our actions engender.
The curse of knowing what needs to be done and doing it.
The rightness behind decisions that seem so wrong,
so hard, so sad. Bitter pills building character.
Is it any wonder so many of us slip into forgetfulness
with the years? Lose the ability to make decisions?
There are days when senility looks inviting
There are days.
Sometimes I yearn for the old days, when I wasn’t awake, and then I shake my head and give thanks for my consciousness. Great poem.
conscious – unconscious – subconscious – self conscious – oh heck, it’a all an illusion anyway! lol