The day gets washed, like a torrent of rain,
Incessant striving, that goes down the drain.
When night starts to fall, there is some relief,
I center like a dew- no matter how brief.
Just lying there passively, no fury, no steam,
No plans to drown the city, or join hands with the stream.
Taking my sweet time, to form and disappear,
Being present in the moment, content in the now-and-here.
That moment of stillness, looks idle and waste,
As the morning dawns, gets trampled in haste.
A new day demands, we pick our parts again,
And face the world anew, come storm or rain.
There's an art to doing nothing, it needn't create art,
You don't need a new poem daily- to heal your heart.
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