Imagine a day.

Not any particular day,

just a day, one like any other.

One born in the bright dawn

of a morning.

A day that dies like any other

under the death shroud

of the night sky.

 

Imagine a day

where ordinary things,

the morning's coffee

the commute to work

the lunchtime walk

the sounds,

just the sounds of the day,

and the evening

just the evening

and its colours

are simple pleasures.

 

Now imagine your problems

as birds painting the sky

with sharp brushstrokes.

Count them, name them,

let them fly free,

while you, as the day dies

search the dark tapestry

of the night sky

and count the

countless opportunities

the stars hold.