Poetrysitting, with legs tucked under
on an armchair, by the window, one crisp noon
book in my hand
coffee on the sill
and sunlight picking at crumbs
that cling to my shirt
refugees from what I had before
stolen minutes, hard to come by
in the pace of the rush, that is living
but the coffee grows cold
I’ve lost my page
and memories picking at crumbs
that cling to my heart
remnants of what I had before
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3 Responses to refugee
wah…. nice
Good stuff. Glad the instant gratificatio of facebook hasn’t dulled this part of you.
Thanks, you two
By the way, one could eat instant noodles everyday and still want to cook a proper meal every once in a while, no? Hehe