Days mature like people,
Early morning ablutions of childhood,
Faintly remembered age of youth,
And the final irony, the gift of night
Born out of the death of days.
Surprising we have lived, together
Outliving the mornings of ending days
Absorbing, assimilating, expelling.
Yet not more than having lived,
To talk of hunger.
With the death of a day
Comes sleep for eight hours
Then the return to what so ever happens
Of the newborn day, puking and crying
Remember, days mature like people.
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