every day tells its own story
like how the clouds gather,
as warm air rises and cools
like how the rain drops,
as puddles form on roads
or ashore when the tides go.
every morning has its own tale
like how the birds chatter,
identical yet different
like how new flowers bloom in Spring,
and leaves turn full green in summer.
limbo, what’s next?
to go on promised paths
or rebel to alien alleyways,
succumb to pressure
or brace it tête-à-tête,
or just maybe, jury-rig for a day’s use?
every month sings its own song
like how the notes pitch,
some, long like the semibreve
and others, like the sixty-fourth note.
limbo, what’s really next?
maybe, everyone else is in limbo
either personal or societal,
either known or recurring
or perhaps just all-in-one.
© Prince Kenny JR
princekennyjr 