I woke up to morning breeze, Like a lover's kiss against chapped lips Like the barest caress over erstwhile tired skin, Like a sweet Whisper Good Morning, And I vowed to keep my window open If only to wake up in love every day.
Tag: poetry month
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My skin crawls fervent; horrified — and the sound it makes is Morse. The code intones the following words: “It’s over, it happened — It’s Done.” Some say comfort is luxury And my flesh? Derelict. But if will truly comes from ones heart, then the braille on my breast says "Go on."
Neiha Lasharie 