Today is for counting my wasted yesterdays
Each one neatly lined up, row on dusty row
Every year the same...
Today is for remembering your unborn tomorrows
And the time I sit, because walking is too slow
There is no blame...
Today is for pretending to make sense of the past
From a life ended, with nothing to show
When I speak your name...
Today is for thinking that memories last
But all they do is fade, until they go...
Like every unfinished song to be sung...
About the death of a son.
Copyright © 2012 Bill Friday
