One cliché may well say:
Every day has its ever-nearing night;
But it’s well-enough true in spite
Of all we might do just to cry-cringe it away.
They’ll wet-whip in the reins
Of a doldrum dreary.
Unwelcome the pain
May be and then some,
But the wash of it makes
Soapy the chain,
And cheery-more is the heart
Who slips from it.
Not all fights are with fists,
Not all hope-dared dawns are cloudlessly bright;
And when you’re kissed by less amidst it,
Wonder-long why you were gifted your children’s light.
Life/Poetry/Randomness: All The Tortures (Excerpt)