The Poetry that I never created,

But the seconds of my day

That I adored so much.

Couldn’t grip the moments

Of my day in my fists                                     

As the iceberg of the day

Set into water and spilled over

From the seams of my fists.


After my morning routine,

I’d befall at                                     

The dining table of my kitchen,

For my everyday breakfast

With a Mug of Coffee  

Or a Cup of Tea                                             

Arising the whole fullness in                         

The emptiness within me.


The morn spun another page

Of my erstwhile diary

With the deeds of that very day,

Too much absorbed I’d be in                              

Savoring the flavor in me

So that my time spilled out

Of my clenched fists

Might never be in futile.  

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