LISTLESS THURSDAY'S

 LISTLESS THURSDAY'S

Thursdays sometimes settle in like this:

A quiet hum of boredom, not quite lonely,

The hours stretch, the chill bites deep outside,

Rain whispers soft, then hardens into ice’s grip.

The world grows still, encased in winter’s breath,

Yet memories slip through the frost unbowed,

Carrying echoes of a brighter, warmer past.

I’m reminded, as tales of yesteryears unwind,

Of days far richer than this muted now,

When life wasn’t tethered by quiet surrender,

Nor chained by rules too many to name or number.

Back then, the world unfurled in boundless hues,

Each hour a canvas, each choice unshackled,

Free from the weight of “must” and “ought.”

As I drift through this gray and listless afternoon,

My mind flares bright with shards of older days,

Scenes from a timeline where joy roamed wild:

Evenings on wheels, slicing through the dusk,

The sun sinking slow, gilding the flagpole’s crown,

Its light a warm farewell to our endless play.

We’d ride the concrete waves, wind in our hair,

Each turn a dance, each scrape a badge of pride.

The air thrummed with freedom’s reckless song,

No clocks to chase, no burdens to bear.

We’d linger past the day’s last golden thread,

The flagpole looming tall, a steadfast friend,

Its shadow pooling wide across the lot,

Framing the nights when time forgot to press.

And oh, the laughter—how it spilled so free,

A current swift and clear as summer streams.

It rose unbidden, born of simple things,

Untouched by the cares that now encroach,

Their heavy hands barring joy’s return.

Back then, to laugh was just to breathe alive,

A gift unearned, a sound without a cost.

But now, the rain turns sharp, the cold digs deep,

And Thursday trudges through a haze of gray.

The present binds with cords of dull routine,

Yet through the gloom, those memories break free,

Whispers of what was, and what’s been lost.

Still, in their light, a flicker softly glows,

A hint that such sweet days might bloom anew.