A lot had to be said.
Some was said,some more,untold...
Some had clinged,onto
The morning cup of tea,fresh from a sleep...
Some were knit,in
The monochrome smoke of a cigarette...
Some got washed away,with
The dirt of yesterday,off a rain...
Some of it,confined,in
Every morsel of a poetry...
Some of it,yet,unsaid,for
The lack of an address.....
Some was said,some more,untold...
Some had clinged,onto
The morning cup of tea,fresh from a sleep...
Some were knit,in
The monochrome smoke of a cigarette...
Some got washed away,with
The dirt of yesterday,off a rain...
Some of it,confined,in
Every morsel of a poetry...
Some of it,yet,unsaid,for
The lack of an address.....
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ReplyDeletevery nice poem..sometimes is to be treated as a most transient object.
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