The morning is quiet, with tension.
The smell of boiling tea,
Open windows, and soft breeze.
And mom and dad, with growing tension.
They don't talk and they don't speak,
Maybe again, dad had some secret leak.
A quiet morning, can have ultrasound.
Beyond ears.
But the mind catches its frequency,
Frequently.
Morning might lost its peaceful grace,
Or maybe, quiet is not a peaceful place.
YOU ARE READING
Chaos, Meaning and Poetry
PoetryIf you like strange, chaotic and deep poetry then this book is for you. You can find almost anything here, from Frying fish to Battlefields.
