GAMBLING ON ANOTHER DAY

GAMBLING ON ANOTHER DAY

We die a little with each new dawn,
A sprinkling of lilacs decorate the lawn,
And like the sunrise, precious and brief,
Our lives are fragile as the crimson leaf
That hangs from the autumn tree,
Only to blow away.

So much sorrow, so much grief,
Until we make peace with the belief,
That all our days are numbered,
Like raindrops on the sod,
And each and every breath we take,
Is nurtured and controlled by God.

Or perhaps Buddha or Fate or some other higher being,
According to your vantage point, your own unique way of seeing.
It matters not your solemn creed,
It matters not your word or deed.
Life is like a bubbling brook,
Amongst a scenic overlook.
Clear and effervescent now,
But soon, alas, to crack and dry
And evaporate into the sky.

We die a little with each new dawn,
As we stumble on the lawn.
On winter’s ice we tumble
As our empires start to crumble.
Nothing left but naked dreams,
Ambition run amok.
Remnants from the wheels we spun,
Engine sputtering in the mud.
We build our lives on sweat and tears,
Covered in our holy blood.

But each day, alas, we live a little, too,
Some hopefulness is called for,
And from somewhere out of the mystic blue,
Sometimes there’s a touch of grace
To shine upon this desolate place.
A sprinkling of lilies that forever bloom,
To light the corner of the darkest room,
And so we clutch to our sliver of hope,
Climbing on our upwards slope,
We somehow rise and go our way,
Gambling on another day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED