Morning
The morn is new, yet it feels old,
Seeing the dew glistening in the cold.
Comfort and warmth are things of the past,
For, despite desires, the night will not last.
A groggy shuffle, a bleary eye,
Whoever took the last cup of coffee now must die.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
