Automaton

when we wake up again this morning
we do not really know what to do
we stare a while on that closed window
still blurred by the frost
we rub our eyes trying to make matters clear
and then all the impulses rush
and then with all the images filling our empty mind
there are, we begin again, so many things to be done,
so much unfinished businesses, so short a life,

time is so swift with feet so nimble.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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