Within the dull and dreary days
when boredom seeks to call
it knocks upon the withered door
of hope that is no more,
Then can I see the dreams that live
within the sullen breast,
and know that they will haunt me now
and keep me from all rest.
It’s in desire, and wanting life
to be some other thing
that discontent can clear its throat
and loud and brittle sing.
And yet while I can see this clear
and know its truth is cruel,
I cannot seem to shift myself
beyond its narrow view.
The day can be no other
than I deem it to be
and yet to change its destiny
I must wrought change in me.