Morning
early morning the house is as silent
as a feather falling
on the floor
the cat wakes up and checks
what it is
it is like him, silent as a cat
silent as his master
not wanting to wake up
no one boils the water
to make a smell of coffee in the air
time drags like a snail
convoluted like some thoughts
like Hamlet's
to be or
not to be
it happens most of the time
fate resolves itself
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.