Every night, as we put the day to rest…
Some kill the day’s worst & savor it’s best.
Some kill both & are, in the morning, the same.
Some catalog both; thus, winning the game.
Some do no accounting, afore or aft…
Just knowing they live when they’ve cried or laughed.
Some haven’t the means to look at theirselves…
No feeling shaped tools & less for mind-delves.
Nights, we dig graves, bury faults & treasure.
Or, live blind…just consumption & pleasure.
L.B.Stowe 