My perfect day

My perfect day

Begins imperfect, flawed,

Even downright miserable,

But becomes a little less so

With the passing of the hours,

Until the sentinels of sleep,

Calling from above their towers,

Say : 'This, in its unlikely way,

Has turned into your perfect day.'

◄ Pain

The mysterious case of the hole in the trousers ►

Comments

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Stephen Gospage

Thu 14th Jan 2021 17:30

My thanks to everyone for the likes. Your interest in my poem is really appreciated.

Aviva - thank you for your analysis of this piece. It's perfectly true that you may miss the celebration of your perfect day because you are too tired to notice it. Perhaps through dreams? I have to follow this up.

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Aviva Rifka Bhandari

Wed 13th Jan 2021 21:22

There is so much hope in this poem, and the concept itself is a veritable store of hope to take from whenever needed. By the time it can be certain that the day wouldn't end up unlikely perfect you're already drifting off into the comfort of sleep. Very clever.

But also, I notice that your perfect day is just like me, at least for the first couple of lines.. we start to differ after that but hey, I'm slightly perfect, who knew?

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