Friday, March 10, 2017

Each morning



Sense of purpose
Is missing
Each morning
It kisses
The lack of it.
The slumber then
Calls again
To once again
Get one
With obliviousness.
But the astounded spirit
Makes a wake up call
Craves for the whistle
For humdrum.
But then
The sense of purpose
Is missing
Each morning -
It kisses -
The lack of it.

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