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Poem

How many days are there, in our all consuming weeks
Not enough, too many, perhaps we need a little tweak
For people that slave hard, days don’t require a name
There just continuities of time, without a rhyme or aim

Earth just keeps spinning, and reality couldn’t care less 
Moon hangs on in there, apparently not out of interest 
Sun is a big magnet, holding our solar system together 
Milky Way spirals a black hole, without any given effort 

Life the only interested party, stands watching the clock 
Remainder of the universe, doesn’t bother taking stock 
God on the other hand, sees everything happen at once 
Satan can pop up anytime, conjuring his cunning stunts 

Ridiculous as this seems, our reality is the human mind 
All is relative to the observer, good, bad, average, kind 
Time’s definitely the driver, of linear inexorable wonder
Without its fatal effect, we’re dead in perpetual slumber 

So how do we tweak our days, make them work in favor 
Stop bearing progeny into poverty, for fodder and labor 
My dog has it better, I’m disgusted to be brutally honest 
The absolute insanity, unfeasible populations among us

This cycle must be broken, everyone deserving of a bite
Why do you bear ten children, unable to afford them life
Seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five, a year 
Scavenging for tomorrow, furthering their slavery career 


By
David Kavanagh

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