"Good morning."
A trembling, subtle
sliver of butter,
half doused in
yawns,
reeling in slumber,
As adown the humble
Bus stops, pavements and
lawns,
Waning, paining in the daily struggle-
They walk.
The airs ring with
Cracking knuckles,
Mornings, greetings-
pearls in the rubble.
The smiles that they stutter
Are daggers in disguise
The mornings they mutter
Are lost to the skies.
They harbour hatred toward the other,
Partaking in the blissful vice
They all use their sweatshirts as cover
For the monsters
lurking inside.
It's a parade of formalities,
Of paper-crisp vainities,
A pantheon of forgotten spite
And twisted abnormalities.
A sham, a joke, a parody;
A wet, weeping comedy,
A plague that rots you inside out
Manifested by pests that harrow me.
One by one.
Yawn by yawn.
Greeting by greeting.
Morning.
A word laced with mockery
Poison rolled in jaggery,
A demented punishment of which
Everyone is a nominee.
Is that why it appeals to me?
Why does it feel how it feels to me?
Let me slip on my mackinee
And take my dog for a jog with me.
For this show of disharmony
Stirs up the poet, the bard in me,
And I, in misery, delight
In penning the sweetest ironies.
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Poetry[On hold] Key: |Straight Brackets| - Poetry. \Tilted Brackets/ - Passionate, Vaguely Poetic Prose or Free Verse. ~Wave Brackets~ - Poetry specifically between 1 and 3 sentences in length. ☆☆ For everyone, Who finds, Not in a graveyard or cretamorium...
