Escaping the clutch of a warm bed
He makes his way to another day.
Who is that old man in the mirror?
How did he end up this way?
Living in his white semi-gloss world,
The days pass one by one;
He dithers with borrowed grace
Begging for the day to be done.
No peace in the Middle East,
Refill the dead teenager pile.
Just in time for the holidays
How long is ‘just for a little while?’
But records fall for the twilight.
What does a red morning portend?
How is it that angels can fly?
Taking oneself lightly, they wend.
As at last the Sun drops below
And stars grace from on high,
The oldish fellow finds his cold bed
Falling asleep with a troubled sigh:
Never heard the Herald Angels sing,
Wonder what the morrow will bring?