by Witty Fay
Touches of home, piled up on the curb,
The bitter in the coffee defines the sugar
And we smilingly bite toast at both ends.
Fingers under the soft fabric of skin alive
Sing of tunes in puddles of life askew.
Such premises of fleeing inside, rather
Than across vanity and endless traps,
Can hardly ever hold the minute in cusp.
Last updated February 27, 2016