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Poem

Our Stolen Days

The given days we take,
Childlike, heedless of consequence.
We swallow them as our due,
Our entitled share of happiness
At least, the consideration of the stake
Each of us holds in the balance
Of fond remembrance or of rue,
Our final denouement 
Before the last event.

How easy to accept the simple days,
The ones that pass as did our forebears'.
The sun shines, the day proceeds
To cast its mark upon us,
As did the imprint of our history,
As did the simple, bloodbourne shares
Of beauty and of misery
That make  us what we are; what binds our ways,
What closes out our nights, then sleeps and stays
And builds our trust
In days to come upon us yet, unaware
From whence is born their mystery,
Their fulfilment of our needs.

But then there are the stolen days,
The days we snatched away from death,
Those days when all the golden rays
Are suddenly nearly snuffed
As a candle before a breeze;
A turn one way or another.
A step put forth or turned aside
Deflects disaster with illusory ease
To let us yet abide
With friend or brother,
With all we love, that with continued breath
We appreciate the stay; doom rebuffed,
Our lives renewed, enchanted.

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