These are the days of poets... looking out to the nothing,
fogged days, when neighbors disappear.
I relish this thought and long to be home to write, to create
in the warmth of the hearth,
where my soul rests and feeds
on each new hour I possess.
Rushing off to my one day's work in the city,
art's desire unquenched, but duty fulfilled.
Ah, to be home, one single mind
lost in thoughts...
Does it ever stop, you ask often...
hoping not so,
my mind whirls in this one possession...
my fantasy and it's will.
Oh, look at this day...
