It is Wednesday somewhere,
Somewhere out in the ether,
Where my poetry posts are presented on time,
Somewhere where I have structure and rhyme.
It is Wordsmith Wednesday,
Where the poem is waiting to be birthed.
In the land of angst and uncertainty,
There is a treasure waiting to be unearthed.
Maybe it is only a shiny rock,
This little poem of mine.
Maybe it is not so shiny,
And I shouldn’t waste my time.
But, alas, the days go by,
Time spits in our eye,
And we believe we age,
When, in reality, we have no gauge.
The sun rises and it sets,
And people go about their daily tasks.
But today is the day for poetry.
“Isn’t it Wednesday somewhere?”, I ask.
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