Home Alone

A little weary
I sit on my bed,
gentle music playing.
A day full of puzzles
has come to rest.

I write just a little
and probably soon put pen down.
Slipping under the covers.

Alas perhaps
a battle will be waged tomorrow,
yet perhaps not?
One never knows,
and knowing matters not;
for what the new day brings
is to be lived as it arrives,
as it unfolds,
as it reveals.