Morning (An Untitled Poem/Poetry)

The canvas of that winter’s late dawn–the dawn that welcomes the early morning,

When the birds are little tired after its session of morning chore,

When insomniac, might and often, leave sigh and said another night passed,

When another few of the city woke up, the joggers and walkers and chaiwallah, 

Was colored with the hue of orange that I’ve seen on some random monsoon eve

After a spell.

The drowsy eyes of mine felt a calm, a serenity; my legs pulled me back to enter office;

The fingers that were holding a cigarette–a habit am trying to quit for months now–

Get reluctant to get up to my lips; my ears was enjoying a calmness,

After I had taken off the earphone, Beethoven Symphony 6 was the last track–

I was hearing on the popular music streaming platform online.

It’s not you, my muse, it’s not you, my new,

It is me, I realized, this morning–

It is only me–the truth I own…

From Poet’s Desk:

Couldn’t find an apt title for this poem and couldn’t determine whether it’s a poem or a poetry. (December 2016)

Thanks to Pradita Kapahi for suggesting the title. (February 2017)

Reposting this to a response of the question–So how should you go about writing as an expressionist? by  dVerse

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