Days

I’m whispering words
In the shape of a day,
But it doesn’t take long
To find it doesn’t work that way.
Days are not whispered,
They are vocal and loud.
They are not humble
But dismissive and proud.
Days are not concerned
If you are here or not.
Rain will fall, wind blow
Regardless; And the desert is hot.
It seems the days are not whispered
But are shouted to be
And their harshness is only
Compromised
By the likes of you and me.
And whilst we add damage
All around
We also add the gifts
For others
To have found.

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