Afflicted

The days have all been good to me-
Alas- but not always I to them.
For I change face at every whim
and covet what I cannot see.

One eve I'll curse the length of day-
One morn, I'll cry "How brief!"
and find myself in silent grief
that I have let time just slip away.

I have promises I cannot keep
to the days that have been kind.
Here hails the passing ghost of time
and I, in wasteful shadows, weep.