The sound of stillness all around
But for the flapping of the dusty fan blades
They bring but little relief
From summer at its sweltering best
The mind avid, the corse wouldn’t budge though
Isn’t there so much to do?
From notes, reports, invoices and estimates
The desk overflows with pending works
Eyelids droop, head falls back on the rest
The aching back, no better than yest
The heart weighs as breathing turns uneven
A catch it is at the throat?
For days, months, years oh! decades!
Sickening routines monotonous and crude
Relentlessly resentfully repeating
With no relief visible in the near
A breakaway is but a hallucination
The thought but adds to the chargin
Wide arms to embrace the clear blue skies
Are but a far away dream
The fight is over, giving up to the winds
Sinking into the arms of destiny
Surrendering to the flowing river of life
Ready for the destination of its whim