But Thursday’s
child is never merited
With any plan but
that vaguest premise –
No directions can
be inherited.
Each day I now stare at that vast blue plain
And count the
creamy crests of froth and foam.
I try to see the
break ‘tween sea and sky,
Asking if that
blurred fracture is my home.
Wet sand around stubbed
toes is comforting
And waves wash over
wounds of wasted days.
The breeze kisses
my face and tired eyes
Sun rays coddle
the scars of old affrays.
One day I will
venture away again,
When all high tides
are low and big swells small.
But just for now I’m
born of Wednesday,
Trapped by
injustice’s cyclonic squall.
Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child must work for a living ...
(Nursery Rhyme, author unknown)
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