Empty Days

Empty Days

Empty days that reach out,
from last night's well laid plans;
penciled dates that mark out,
such planetary spans

Rotations mapped and charted,
times and dates observed;
journeys finished, started,
with a year held in reserve

Another year, a quick run,
so fast they seem to burn;
waiting for the next one,
to take its rightful turn

Such faces form at junctions,
where time and space allign;
when fate and fortune function,
their reason in the rhyme

Running through a tired fold,
a yarn lost, battered, drear;
sweet memories thin, spun from gold,
weaved, threaded through the year

A swirl of kin, forged oddly,
fired over time;
a twirl, a glaze set fondly,
a round of Auld Lang Syne

To mark the things that times abrase,
still somehow, held in tune;
praised be are the empty days,
that fill up all too soon