Short poem (somewhat) following Anapaestic structure.
My days are full, somehow I get lost, in all the noise
Turning tides follow, each passing hour, still poised
easier to stay moored, than break away, tied to the hope
of safety here, while my dreams drift, barely afloat
sometimes I see, each drifting dream, gleam and shine
I would catch them, if I could find the time
My days are full, somehow I get lost, in all the noise
Turning tides follow, each passing hour, still poised
easier to stay moored, than break away, tied to the hope
of safety here, while my dreams drift, barely afloat
sometimes I see, each drifting dream, gleam and shine
I would catch them, if I could find the time
