It is a blend of here and there,
Nowhere and everywhere,
People, events and places,
A merger of familiar and strange faces,
A world distinct from the one we're in,
No heaven or hell, purity or sin,
Facts are distorted into fantasy,
A combination of myth and reality,
Where death does not exist,
A surreal kind of life will persist
And the dream world will then be gone,
When we wake from sleep at dawn.

It was the morning after
A long and snowy night,
I looked outside the window,
And beheld a wondrous sight.

The world was still and silent,
Not a human soul in sight,
No bird was flying, nothing stirred,
All just silently white.

Rooftops, trees and gardens all,
Layered with snow so high,
Cottoned flakes still drifted down,
Softly, gently, from the sky.

Stillness wove its charming spell,
The silence shared its peace,
If all this beauty will survive,
I can pass my days with ease.

It's always so very, very easy,  
All the flaws in others, for us to see;
When we look for flaws, they will always show,
Everywhere we look, we can see them grow;
Our own flaws though, we are  often blind,  
Yet they are always there, for us to find;
So criticism, we should keep in line,
For everyone has flaws like yours and mine

Showing off is always such a pain,
In the neck, also you-know-elsewhere,
It’s a sign of insecurity,
And doesn’t impress nor here nor there

A dozen dull things he has to do
A dozen dull decisions he has to make
A dozen dull hours are all he has
For the dull actions he has to take

That is his daily dull routine
Working from nine to five
A dozen dull months each year
That is the dull story of his life

Now he is just weary of it all
And he deeply yearns to find a way
To climb out from the timeless trap
To free himself from dullness one fine day

The thought drifted slowly to my mind,
Still dull and woozy in my head,
That surely must be coffee I thought,
While lolling in my bed.

I waited for my sleepy head to clear,
For my senses to gather there,
Such a fragrant feeling waking up,
With the scent of coffee in the air!

A poem is never perfect,
Just like everything,
The poet has to check,
Check and counter-check,
It needs constant editing.