Common To All

The air that we breath

So common to all

It comes and it goes

With each rise

And each fall,

Like the thoughts

We are thinking

They come

And they go,

Drives a poet

To drinking

When stuck in

The flow,

There’s fun ones

And sad ones,

Glad ones and mad,

Then there are those

That are simply just bad.

Perhaps Van Gogh

When he cut off his ear,

Was awash in the waves

Of grey thoughts

That aren’t clear.

Stephen Nesbitt ©