Thursday, May 11, 2006


The sky, pitch black, shows small patches of grey,
Like after hours of scrubbing, a burnt pot may
The sleepy air awakens, and is surprised to see,
The corpse of the night, in the empty mug of coffee
The tree that vanished last eve, in sepia re-emerges,
In memory of its anonymity, i can hear dirges,
That the birds start singing,alone and then together,
They soon degenerate, along with the weather,
From a sublime melody, to a mundane chaos
I yawn,cross my legs, and then uncross
For hours on end, with my thoughts i lay,
And now sleep falls on me, with the rising day