Satin sheen,
softened green gleaming,
rumpled, with the hours.
I lay here still,
and watch the sun’s patterns
dancing,
on the window sill;
A distraction.
Must keep from thinking,
becoming absorbed again.
‘Live for the moment’,
they say.
But who are they?
Those with such ability
to ignore the thoughts
that ravage from within.
Nerves become fear and doubt,
unsettling.
Butterflies become moths,
eating,
eating away inside,
threatening to unravel
all that I am.
How can one live in the moment,
when all one sees
are pretty patterns,
dancing,
on the window sill?
