For this Mundane World of Mine
Every morning, as my eyes break from the quiet dark,
I whisper to the silence, asking what this day will carve.
Will it be another stretch of familiar gray,
Or will the winds of fate stir, painting the hours in a richer way?
Will the clock’s steady pulse just echo the known,
Or might a spark fracture the routine, casting shadows over the monotonous stone?
Will my steps trace the well-worn lines of comfort’s weary map,
Or will I stumble into something that pulls me from this ceaseless, silent trap?
