The Weeks and Days

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The weeks and days and hours of a life
Do they pass with each stray movement
Erratically, as in but a futile strife
For a momentary improvement?

Futility, it seems does make its house
Within such disjointed and numbered days
Where man and woman cannot but grouse
As each shoe and tire frays

And they still leave us a few of holidays
To make sure we don't decay to dust
But all the attitude betrays
That all is driven but by lust;

Listen for the bells or howling gale
Listen for the water running down
For the foghorn's mournful wail
For a footfall coming round;

Man does not get better by degrees
He only gets more worn and dull
It only marks increased disease
With each tick marked on the wall

Unless he become alive again
His work is but a quickened breath
For he himself is not his end
He must survive his death.

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