Just A Random Thursday

A Thursday dawns, a gentle rise,

A quiet light paints sleepy skies.

Not the rush of Friday’s call,

Nor the calm of Sunday’s thrall,

Just a breath, between the two,

Where moments pause, both old and new.

The world spins on with steady pace,

In the office, every face

Holds a story, told in glances,

Measured steps and fleeting chances.

A random Thursday, just a beat,

A pulse of time, both slow and fleet.

The coffee brews, a steady hum,

The workday presses, yet becomes

A quiet rhythm, known but strange,

A dance that feels both wide and ranged.

Not the start, nor end in sight,

But a bridge between the morning light

And evening's gentle, fading grace,

A pause within the fast-paced race.

A phone rings, a meeting starts,

The mind does its familiar parts,

With memos, notes, and lists to check,

A tick, a tock, the minutes trek.

But there’s a moment, in the midst,

Where the thought might quietly twist—

What is this day, and what is it worth?

A Thursday, grounded in the earth.

For Fridays bring a fervent cheer,

And Mondays, far too close, a fear.

But Thursday stands as quiet friend,

Not pulling up, not on the bend.

A stranger in the week’s embrace,

Yet holding strong, a steady grace.

It carries on, with little fuss,

Its value lies in being thus.

The hours pass, like steady streams,

Filling up the workday’s seams,

And yet, beneath the hustle’s pace,

There’s room for quiet, room for space.

For Thursday brings a subtle peace,

A chance to stop, to feel release.

It’s not the start, nor end of goals,

But somewhere in between it holds

A truth, a balance, calm and still,

Where time can breathe, where hearts can fill.

In every office, on every street,

A random Thursday feels complete.

It carries on with steady grace,

A pause within the crowded race.

Not too much, not too little,

A subtle hum beneath the riddle.

A day that’s neither grand nor small,

Yet in its balance, holds it all.

So let the Thursday be the thread,

That links the days that lie ahead.

A humble step, a fleeting glance,

A space within the week’s advance.

Just a Thursday, a random one,

Yet in its way, it’s never done—

For every Thursday, so it seems,

Holds a place within our dreams.

And in its quiet, simple guise,

Lies the depth of time’s disguise—

The weeks and months that come and go,

The ebb and flow, the subtle show.

On Thursdays, we can stand and see,

The beauty in the mystery.

Not grand nor small, but just a part,

Of life’s great, ever-turning art.