A bland soup,
Two bloated bubbles on the surface,
Eyes, no, life rings,
For what, the mould's not arrived, yet,
A third rises and, pop,
A spurt of Kaitaia Fire's murdered the first,
But no sauce of inspiration could save this,
Soup - uninspiring!
Croissant or a hot cross bun - tomorrow morning
I stir once, clockwise, thrice, anticlockwise, pop,
A uniform range, haunted by mushed corn lakes, forms,
It degrades slowly, like all famous peaks,
I wonder, will the chickpeas,
Birthed from a spoon's butchery,
Believe in their parent's tale of yester?
Well, at least, they will always have the great broccoli tree,
A forever-floater, no matter the metallic utensil I threaten with.
I dip in my spoon,
A knight's sword, this tree will be no more,
"On this night of dissatisfaction," I claim,
"There will be an expiration," and I draw,
And I hac—
splat.
Pop, the soup's last bulging eye disappears,
That is two expired, we need only wait a minute more for my sight.
Tomorrow, I promise dear page,
I will entreat you with a croissant's flaky crust,
Fondant over the cocky breath of coffee.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
