Days and Pixie Dust

Days drag on, like the ploughs in a fresh field
The monotonous drone of the wheels of a cargo truck
The kilometres gradually adding more numbers to an already terrifying amount
White turns to green, then to red, the to white once more
The sparrows and swifts fly south, then return in a majestic round that would have made Magellan proud
Origins may be lost, memories compromised
Time turns to dust, insignificant particles that fly and disappear into the moonlight
A newborn's cry, replaced with the tears of a family missing one of its owns
Through age or sickness or the pure monstrosity of man, I do truly ignore
Days end and begin, nothing is truly permanent
Though when my eyes open, struggling against the strict prodding of the sun
I do no think of life, or death, or time
I think of breakfast, and of duties, and of the inevitable,
For that is the curse of routine and human repetition
And therefore we are forever empty and longing:
These are consequences of choosing to be a master
Of things we do not understand