Early morning. Another day where I am represented in the ongoing circle. My path, having walked more than hundreds of thousands of miles. So many worn out shoes.
Another day. To put myself together. Even if I fall apart. A representation of humanity.
Another autumn day. October walks into the party, always a little late, but always welcomed. The lessons of another summer laying down to rest.
Another sunrise. The birds make their way. They fly out from their nests. They travel to their local markets. Check in on their bird friends.
The pavement. Cold is breathing up. Outside with a jacket. I think about lying down.
Did I get enough sleep? Do I get enough rest? the sickness of stagnation moves me to every familiar of my house. Then out toward the locals. Then back to a bed that barely welcomes me as a guest anyhow.
Another morning. Another sweet, dry morning. Hopes of coffee, remnants of midnight snacks, maybe a breakfast scramble.
Another direction. Locked away from so many cabinets to spice up this life. I remain in this season, smells of cinnamon on my skin. Wishing to someday blossom to a nutmeg before nightfall.
The trees are getting crispy. Moisture hasn’t quite found way. The day only provides like that of a cold sweat when one wishes to be warmly salted. Cold pretzel skin. Cold limbs.
Another hour. I’ll take this first one with morning dread and a lackluster heap of sugar on top.
Another Monday. The weekend gave me their best try and enthusiasm is easing into a cold deserted fall.
Boots. Umbrellas. Rakes. Slippers.
Bicycle takes on a new color of rust. It all happens so fast now.
It’s a disiduous day when in need for an evergreen year.
Pale faces ask for direction. Even the cars feel brittle. A stop light leads the way. Street signs grow louder. They have a more pronounced look in the dull fog.
Nature calls. It’s getting tougher and easier to show up on time.
Poetry
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I really liked the use of anaphora on this poem. With each repeated use of “Another,” everything feels more tedious. Days are tedious. Mornings are tedious. Sunrises are tedious. In a good way- this is a really effective way of communicating the narrator’s feelings without outright saying them. Thanks for the read!
Thank you for the reply! Though the morning was rough, it’s looking like a pronounced afternoon.
I love the descriptions in your poem. Very well written!
Thank you so much. I was trying to breathe new connections toward common phrases.
These two lines “My path, having walked more than hundreds of thousands of miles. So many worn out shoes.” and “Another sunrise. The birds make their way. They fly out from their nests. They travel to their local markets. Check in on their bird friends.” stands out in the entire poetry, as it conveys reality of life on daily basis, in the best way to the reader.
Yes. Constructive turmoil might not visit every mortal.