You don’t know why you don’t write everyday 
any more.
 
You thought about how subtly this has happened. 
Before you knew it, all titles became 
"An Eventful Day" 

as if some days are lesser than others
and you are still rushing to get somewhere-
some place some days bring to more.

If meaning is living in those days, 
there must be something hidden 
that made the pen a little boat,
and days the willful currents, 
inhaled, propelled on Sea Blasé 
and wind blew gusts of vanity, 
ecstasy, and meaningless childish fantasy 
of the future. 

I am also in the tempest, waiting 
for it to pass.