Too many sleepless nights,
I spend the rest of the day,
Ensconced in my space.
I snatched the passing time with my waiting fingers
Blow it a kiss like I did to dragonflies I daintily caught of yore
and let it fly back along
with the unsuspecting rest, running clockwise
in my timer.
The clock couldn’t stop,
its batteries have just been replaced,
with the ones the rat-ta-tat rabbit
said would last and last.
The CD player spins jazz in 220v.
But the TV, sits bored twiddling antennas.
The books stand devoured with wanton
abandon,
their dog-eared pages scream “Ouch!”
Such irreverence to mentors in paperbacks
and hard-bound covers.
Do remind me to get bookmarkers that do not get lost.
I continue to pen words
into legible thoughts,
only to find,
the time I once snatched on a whim,
perched on my back,
watching my next move.
So I watched it back.
And nothing else happens after the initial eye contact.
This is just one instance-
Why poetry has no ending.
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon A Rabbit Hole Time
PoetryI wrote whimsical poetry because I was with my younger siblings, raised in books that lived out the nursery rhymes in classic tales beginning from infancy to adulthood. An archived proof of this is an old photo of my two sisters and me under the hea...
