daily life

Breakfast

The Poetry that I never created,

But the seconds of my day

                                                That I adored so much.

                                                Couldn’t grip the moments

                                                Of my day in my fists                                     

                                                As the iceberg of the day

                                                Set into water and spilled over

                                                From the seams of my fists.

 

                                                After my morning routine,

I’d befall at                                         `           

                                                The dining table of my kitchen,

For my everyday breakfast

                                                With a Mug of Coffee  

Or a Cup of Tea                                             

                                                Arising the whole fullness in                          

                                                The emptiness within me.

 

The morn spun another page

Of my erstwhile diary

With the deeds of that very day,

Too much absorbed I’d be in                              

Savoring the flavor in me

So that my time spilled out

Of my clenched fists

Might never be in futile.  

 

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