Don’t wait to fulfill your plans until Monday,
You will have missed a fill of six other full days,
and in your delay be only left with the mundane.
For others toiled while you lay, while you still play,
their patience a bitter bounty, taken dead or alive,
yours was sweet, a death row inmate’s last meal
already tasted, with winter waxing, a harvest wasted.
Each day helps to build on the morrow,
but don’t sorrow, let that drop you into despair,
for if your past is pockmarked with disrepair,
or has its origin in a pair of desert destitute designs,
remember that the future is a gift granted to the living,
a present time, limited, yet one that keeps on giving.
A paradox at the same time connected & separated,
infinitely continuous but with no relation to the next.
Time that stands on its own foundation,
that merits the best.
a moment in space -