My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.
Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.