Isn’t it in these cool young hours of the morning
That we find ourselves the most
In those mornings where there is a purpose for us being
In soft quiet fawn light
Before the rest wake up
Long night happy weary limbs shiver their way home
Early morning cyclists
All the insects devour the dew and buzz
And the birds stretch and yawn loudly
In rose petal light
I feel fresh
The culmination of a lamplight night
Spent absorbing delicious words
To the point of creating my own
Roll a cigarette
Drop my filters
Their little foamy cylinders trying to escape back to the earth
And not be smoked
My eyes are sore
I brought coffee in a giant thermos so I drink
I lost my pen
But I did find it
And I stood up and saw the sun rising
Preparing to do it all again


One thought on “Young

  1. Really like this a lot. A poem that just gathers impressions and lets those impressions do the work. Really subtle writing, gentle and musical, like the subject matter. Good stuff punk!

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