There is something about the end of each day now, something that fits
Or rather doesn’t. As if a day without talking to you is a day,
Boxes of beads, diagrams of projects, branches stretched into circles
Waiting, full of potential, but destined to remain
File folders with check lists, painstakingly created,
Words to follow, words to study, but still so many things left,
How do I follow a path that at times is so unclear?
No footsteps left to follow, the road before me,