The days that slip away were never there
A day is after all, for modern man,
A mere construction, made of light and air
Conjured from the vents, and not a span
Of daylight or of night. Who sees the sun
Set in the west and says the day is gone
When less than half his waking time is done?
Who in the east looks up to see the dawn
And says the day has started when his work
Made him wake up an hour or two before?
Thoughts like the sunrise may still sometimes lurk
Deep in our minds, but still the day is more
And somehow less than nature'd have it be;
My day has passed without a sun to see.
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