It was still daylight outside,
But mind within, a hazy blur.
Weren't you guilty, excuses aside,
Of not listening, when it was all clear?
You dreamt of a library, even before you built a home,
But succumbed to daily grind, the dream at once forlorn.
Didn't you regret, for days to come,
Not picking up that book, when life seemed a drone?
You set out a wayfarer, treading many a path unknown,
But bridled midway, the flinch eclipsing your zeal.
Wouldn't you often retrospect, when all alone,
If you'd realized sooner, sedentary life didn't really appeal?
The sun by now, had faded into skies ethereal,
But leaving behind, thoughts lucid.
Weren't all those fears mere conceptual,
Since they died out, when began writing finally, you did!?
Photo Credits: David Masters