In early morning birds are yet to wake,
Their wings flutter in noises from trees.
Crows in some trees blurt out from
The disturbed sleep of a few of them.
It is now the ambient dark of morning.
One hears a motor sound that comes
Piercing from sleep-weary basement
For the water to flow in our bathrooms.
This sort of darkness touches heart
In a tender expectant way of rising sun.
Sleep feels restless on creaking beds
Of people for whom morning is night.
Steeped in poetry, it is just that day’s death
And dreams of finely bound poetry volumes
That defined morning over soft keystrokes.
One tries to explore poetry and death together.
In the end death is poetry, when it is not real
In the hospitals and lonely parks in left cities.
Death is fine poetry as after-fact and bellyache.
Later, in morning walk there will be spring in the air
With the leaves flying on a breeze on the dusty road.
That is when I seek the poetry of thought words .