Poetry

She never really had a voice
Just a whisper in the faceless
saying something wasn’t a choice,
screaming was rendered useless.
Her feet joined the thousand beats
that shattered the restless city
their souls rose above the heat
chanting a bushmans lil ditty.

The clouds are floating south

a white dot, stops still

a constant in the silent

humming burring darkness

I can’t see tomorrow

but I can still hear today

the clouds are floating south

across this navy fray

The sun went to sleep
fell into the shadows
the night crept in deep
but no one will know.
The houses flicker
warmth and golden vibes
but can you see her
top window, she hides.
Waiting in the dark
for the night to take
the remaining spark 
leaves lust in his wake. 
Shadows are sleeping
the night is deepening 
the eyes are knowing
a moments dreaming. 

A coffee table, a simple piece,

To hold our cups, to rest our feet.

But oh, the joy it can impart,

When chosen well, with care and heart.

I read a review of one today,

A table meant to steal the day.

It spoke of wood, of strength and grace,

Of sleek design and perfect space.

The reviewer praised its sturdy frame,

Its smooth top, its elegant name.

And as I read, I felt a spark,

A longing for that coffee ark.

To gather round with friends and kin,

To share our stories, let love begin.

To feel the warmth of morning sun,

To sip our brew, to laugh and fun.

Oh coffee table, how you inspire,

A sense of home, a cozy fire.

A place to pause, to slow and breathe,

To find our peace, to believe.

So thank you, reviewer, for your words,

For showing me what grace affords.

I’ll seek that table out one day,

And toast to you, in its sweet sway.