Things to do that must be done
And things we must indulge and love
Others still to merely prove
And lastly not forget to use
Those you haven’t thought of yet
But leave you blinded in regret
Contract and flow from thought and head
Clear to hear yet still unsaid
A black balloon; the poison veined and left
Beneath the sink finds one bereft.

Left on the screen a still frame set
These moments splinter by each tick
And reconsider what pulls rank
And what will make us reach and wish

There are no things done, or to do
Just endless fields now, Lines of blue
Ink dissolves into the slew
And edges round with calm
There are no things which must be done