A creased sheet to cover
A creased pillow for my head to lay
A creased bed to stay
My own small world I’d say.
A coffee mug, half empty
But half full I see
The golden honey,
Slides down the stair of pancakes,
Glittering, a pleasure to be.
A poem undone,
My pen lays lifeless
We both so similar,
I perceive.
A book, half left the mark says
But half read I mean.
The squeaky wooden floor, talking in silence,
My only companion I feel.
The phone, ringing too loud
Hurts my gentle ears
Let it ring, I feel no need to answer,
An evil pain, indeed.
Windows shut, the worldly light unseen.
The only view I believe
Is that of subtle peach daffodils;
My curtains reveal.
Wait, I hear something;
The rain drops against my window pain,
They hit so light, a tune for me, so lazy.
Pretentious me,
Refuge to my laze.
I see no world, I see no need to work,
A reason for me to go back to sleep.
Keith Armando Gomes
Image Source [http://www.scottshephard.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/2012-05-06-Warped-Reality.jpg]
