A poem.

Low, slow days dragging
like ponderous pompous prayers
to an impatient churchgoer
ticking a box on a soulless slow Sunday
hard wooden pews
unforgiving to body and soul,

Low, slow nights my dry mouth
yearns for a drop of some
cool tap water, but too terrifically tired to rise,
too drained even to slake
my raging thirst,

Oh, the weariness that grinds me down,
I could endure perhaps
if not for the dark mantle, despairs’ cloak
that makes of time a test
on low slow days.

CP26