I kept busy, stayed buried
For years and years

Worked weekends, week nights
The struggle, the strife
Kept feeding the candlelight
With nothing much left to fight

Everyone else seems to measure their life in years
So why do I judge mine by the days?

I have always been impatient – resigned
Waiting on the sun when the moon is high
Waiting on my own efforts to materialize
Climbing an ever-impossible incline

Why do I spend and spin and spare my time?


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