Christopher Walrath

As I sit and stare and ponder
On this life through which I wander,
Oft I find myself adrift on
Many a varying theme.

On one day it may be warm hugs.
On the next, maybe a thought tugs
From the edge of my own thoughts, out
From the depths of dreams.

And the days are few.

I may be well, I may be broken.
I might be shut or widely open.
'Tis possible I'm in the room,
Or perhaps far away.

Though be no doubt to my intention,
I succumb unto my penchant
For a wee dramatic flair
That helps to light the day.

And the days are few.

It's not of pride or even malice for
Which my hands they clasp this chalice.
I drink of life, unencumbered,
Slicing to the quick.

And if I halt this dear consumption
I must arrive at the assumption
Where I have given o'er my will
Lest the clock another tick.

And the days are few.

O', how I seek the sun's warm light to
Bring me safe and through the night.
Without it I might never see the
Light that is in you.

For, giv'n the opportunity
I would submit to scrutiny
Of absolutest certainty.
And pass as nary few.

And the days are few.

Haunt me with my own life.


-CW 23Sep09