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Silent morning on Mondays
Glancing to gaze,
Listening to 'hellos and heys'.
Occupied green chairs and desks,
The lonely eyes
And untalkative heads.
Reserved and waiting for him,
Stealing thunders
Calmly dreaming to skim.
Lonesome-like but crowded room,
Unknown and scared
With the smell of chrysanthemum.
Leo's season and luciform,
Making some hopes
Calm before the great storm.
The whispers and the murmurs,
Making bemused.
Behind those are cynosures.
While others are fawning.
She's in panache,
In expressing while reading.
She walked by hook or crook,
Into podium,
With a heart, she spoke like a book.
Some like stars from the night sky,
Blinking lights while
Others are as music's sigh.
One grayish-like lonely day,
Perhaps a clique
With some hangovers in May.
Tawdry with those ingenious,
A block of melting ice and some
Amicable and garrulous.
Those colors and vibrant hues,
Shining because
It's best to wear your own shoes.
In silence are the taciturns
Truly jotting louder
More than those prolix persons.
