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.

 

2018

About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s