In the form of a poem, written long ago
Lived today as everyday, played out in slow-mo
Far far away, beyond rumbling hills and mulching cows
Sand strewn deserts, past night’s moonlit glow
Silver shine on passing train, boot crunch on strewn grain
Pale shadow of Tuesdays past, this Tuesday too shall pass
Like every other day of wasted opportunity
Lazy beings do not connect well with eternity.