Poetry

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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