Mixed

The days seem slightly pointless in their train

One after one another, ticking on

Mostly arrhythmic, pinging in my brain

In long or short tones, until each is gone,

Each different, but mostly more the same,

Until the better days shortly arrive

For which, I must assure you, I am game:

The days when I feel most of all alive,

When all the colors fade out of the black

Into their normal, more eccentric hue;

When all at once I fail to feel the lack

Of my invigoration, and of you.

For now the hours are but dull refrains

Until your presence brings new, haunting strains.