Breakfast Is Ready
My frame on the old oak chair,
Is a sight that curls your lip,
We tried to hold the illusion,
But after time we let it slip,
The highs and lows of your voice,
into your song I used to chime,
Now over runny eggs,
I hear your voice and hide mine,
For the food as well as your life,
Is really a bore to you,
I season it with my tears,
Hold my cries in til you are through,
When you leave I wash the kitchen,
And sit back on my chair,
The door is five feet away,
But I've never made it there...
Copyright © Jezabella Singe | Year Posted 2012
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