FIRST OF ALL

THIS POEM WAS NOT

SUPPOSE TO HAPPEN

the whisper of stars muffled by clouds

the breeze of early night is dry though

slowly softly city humdrum slowing

the tired breath of my week end soul

yearning for the caress of calmness;

to lie down immobile & comatose.

I shut, after a fight of glory, self;

thoughts need arrangement all of–

sudden like my dear books almirah.

I want to organize my words;

their deep whisperings rumbling.

I need silence; want to be deaf

’cause this poem I don’t want to write.

LAST OF ALL THIS POEM WAS NOT

I WANT TO WRITE TONIGHT

LIKE MANY OTHER POEMS

LIKE MANY OTHER NIGHTS

Daily Prompt: Organize

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