Morning Past The Hour Of Nine

Long hours, dry throat,
the idle eyes are about
to slumber.

Triggered mind, weak fingers,
the space of no one is the
scorching sun.

Howling traffic on  the
avenue, the wolves  of the
streets are alive.

Someone has solved
the math problems, someone
has failed to connect.

And your lies are
still served on a silver
platter, but I declined.



About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
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