The morning no longer inspires. It is faced wearily, with a cold cup of coffee, a cigarette ground out before its time. The mind crushed as easily as the slim reed; the spirit circling like smoke for but a moment above it.
The beauty of the day is lost in the rush; head down, arms crossed to clutch inside the little warmth that’s left there. Or maybe, to still the turmoil; keep it from escaping out my mouth and eyes. Armies of ideas fighting for the victory of attention. Innocence trampled in the clash; no matter, just casualties of war.
Sometimes, it’s just so hard to be.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I Like. Once again, your words fit well. :-}
Peaks and valleys, bud…peaks and valleys.