© Steve King
All rights reserved
I know tomorrow
will come round to me.
Always.
Rising in the wake
of that last receding dream;
puddled in the spreading tide of sunrise.
Tomorrow,
all the same.
Each awakened word a fair reminder,
fanfare of echoes
full of new meanings
and the same old tricks to betray.
All tomorrow,
everything you say.
Tomorrow always
feels like yesterday.
