The March of Days

The wall stares back, a grid of dread,

each box a day I should have fled.

The red ink bleeds, a fevered sign,

that date circled, yours and mine.

Three times the marker, thick and bold,

a story that is growing old.

The hours shrink, the minutes fly,

beneath this over-promised sky.

I trace the line, a fragile thread,

to things unsaid, to dreams long dead.

The paper strains, the staples groan,

a life I barely call my own.

A Tuesday blurred, a Friday faint,

this constant, self-inflicted taint.