Sometimes the morning shakes
itself from its moorings
To this world and lifts skywards
with a fighter jet's roar,
Everyone lucky enough to be up and
about looks to the east
But the sound follows idly a much
faster comet too quick
For lazy eyes, so we ink in a
sleek cross with exhausts
And settle for sound in place of
sight for peace of mind.
A morning without wings, or
Comments
Post a Comment