Small Things

gray skies

It seems like little, I know

Nothing to make the earth shake

Only three more pounds, you say

Yet three might well be thirty or three hundred

For it’s not the number, but the weight of its counting

Every now and again

Thick clouds suffocate the sky

Gray is just another color and doesn’t last, you say

Still, it’s not the dark that bothers me so much

As the loss of the sun whose palette colors the light

Call me a fool, I suppose

For failing to hear magic

In the evening’s solitude

Peaceful silence may calm the troubled spirit

But its empty voice also sings of the coming death

These are small matters to most

Grains of sand on Life’s big beach

The heart knows that truth as well

Yet the head still trips over boulders pitting

reality’s road, whose craters cannot be ignored

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