Glue Morning

Days fall
like drops of rain:
feel yourself swirl
down the drain.

Curse the world
for being profane.
Curse yourself
for being inane.

Search for God, 
on lighted screen, 
never knowing 
what’s been seen. 

Images entice, 
and seem to mean, 
so much,
and so suffice, 

to illuminate 
the in-between...

Hear the birds' chirp: 
whistling joyful tunes, 
as you your caffeine slurp 
and think it such a boon. 

It’s early though, 
the Sun is,
yet to make an entrance, 
to entrance everyone into 
doing their dances.

Into getting out of bed, 
dreamers still dreaming, 
whatever’s in their head: 
God’s library streaming... 

But soon enough,

see Sol turn night to day, 
and, what a transition... 
Nature: artist at play: 
just fusion and fission... 

And this writer of poems, 
who decants dazzling dawn 
with Mind that ever roams, 
this being, known as John... 

Well, what can I tell you...? 
This is no place, 
to evoke what’s taboo, 
or to measure one’s grace...

Only listen to the birds chirp: 
a choral clamor true. 
Time’s stream runs like syrup, 
and sometimes sticks like glue...