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These Days, My Days
These days, my days, come in stanzas
grouped by mood and circumstances.
Older days linger longer in so many ways
less in a daze, less lost in a maze,
with muse engaged in self contemplation
old hands of time mesmerised in slow motion.
For these days, my days, are more cherished,
swirled around the tongue and relished
like an old wine popped open breathes,
and gets rid of its wrinkles and dead leaves.
The opening stanza of flippant youth days
extravagantly splurged and set ablaze
sets the scene for middle-day saga
when your family drove the drama.
But these days, my last days in seclusion
are timely days, for me to make conclusion.
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