Glue Morning

Days roll by

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;

Without e'er knowing

What’s been seen;

Images entice,

They seem to mean

So much, and so suffice

To explain the in-between...?



Listen to 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 its 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...

See the Sol, 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 time or place,

To evoke what’s taboo,

Or measure one’s Grace…




Just listen to the birds chirp,

A choral clamor true;

Time’s stream runs like syrup,

And sometimes sticks like glue…

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