Gone

A day can pass without me realizing
There's a hard thought, when examined deep.
At first I don't believe it sounds surprising
For all of us have days we do not keep
Bound in the volumes of our memory,
But it is strange to never have writ down
The first draft of the day ere it could be
Bound up. Not every day can have a crown,
But something tells me each should be a peasant
Working its land, existing, breathing, living
Whether that life is terrible or pleasant
The fact of it should be there, unforgiving
And true. Although not everything's remembered
I am not sure one day should be dismembered.