Paul Willason Poet Free verse

Some Days

At the end of some days
there are things
that won't fit back,
left overs that rattle 
late at night when 
you're trying to sleep,
or tap on the doors
of a memory that you'd 
prefer to forget.

Others make little noise.
They wander the edges
just out of reach, parts 
of yourself that have  
broken off or you've
left behind, the worn out 
remnants and litter
of your life.

Then there are moments
when the world settles 
and curls around you
in an exhausted quiet, 
when you can almost hear
a voice call your name
down some long corridor
of time. It's been
calling out for years
like this as if wanting
to come back to a place
where it would fit,
somewhere within you,
if only you could find it.

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