I am a stolen moment
of respite,
that blooms in freshness,
when minutes playing hooky
blossom into
thoughts with prismatic wings
and a desire to flee
the mad rat race that has
become the dictum
of survival...

-

my coffee...

stronger
than a boxer's punch,
sweet as
first kiss on virgin lips
and hot as
diva sizzling on the ramp
or skillet on stove top

~that 's my coffee...!

-

Don't worry if you feel
that you are not my cup of tea
for I just have COFFEE !!!

-

Cravings at Dawn...

Lethargic moning
yawns, yearning for
a frothy mug of cappuccino
laced in vanilla~
before its crawls out
from blanket's cuddles...

-

every yawn scribed on vermilion dawn
is erased blending in mandarin,
as a frangipani morning breathes
cappuccino aubades in virgin light.

https://allpoetry.com/poem/13860860-Morning-Coffee...-by-smitasri-noguest

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I am selfish
dyed in hues to match the colors
of a self centered world,

having suffered the repercussions
of selflessly extending myself
beyond my horizons
and out of my depth.

I cannot burn
as the sun blazing to nurture,
and be tattered as the clouds to
quench the thirst of parched earth,

be plowed and tilled
as soil to endow sustenance,
and be scarred as the moon
seeking to dilute the night's kohl,

I am my own reason
for existence and
I love myself first even at
the cost of being
branded as selfish...

-

Beauty is
synonymous to poignance
shimmering in
bruised bosom
of sky resplendent
as an aubergine twilight,
and in tears of weeping moon
that are regulgent
as dewdrops on dawn's brow
the wrath of waves
shattered by carnivorous shores
becomes a threnody,
a dying comet
is an argent sigh emblazoned
on bland inky heights,
all a blend of angst and beauty...

-

The night stretches ebon arms
its embrace filled with silhouettes,
echoing with orphaned questions,

the shadows are like
those unacknowledged answers
lost in ambiguity
seeking redefintion in moonlight

and the questions the myriad moods
of an overactive curiosity
that linger unsolved, intriguing
the human mind, luring
it with their convoluted confusions
in the solemn silent night ...

-

If looks could kill
I would be a serial killer
glaring daggers without qualm,
because born a leo with murder
in my feline eyes, I brew storms within
porcelain moments, feeding on quibbles for satiety...

-

Silence has
its own verbiage
composed of nuances
punctuating its monologues
of garrulous quietude,

like a braille of intuition for
the perceptive,

it can be interpreted in
rainbow moods,

for silence is
but enceinte with stories,

and never barren of
vibrant tales
for keen listeners...

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