Mondays are just young Fridays

Steadfastly we move.
Independently inching along
the same route,
in each direction.

Determined
or despondent, rarely it is clear.

We are all going somewhere.

Our destination uncertain.
Our paths differ.

Frequently we slip,
we may fall.

Someone might be there to
lift us up. Or we have
to get along
by ourselves.

Still we walk,
surely survive.

We can get there, autonomously,
in time. We may
assist somebody.

Along the way.

04/16/2018                                                j.g.l.

 

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
Take a poem to lunch

 

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