Good Morning

A Poem

Good Morning

Time gave way and fled in awe-

How do I deserve the pleasure?

For all the names I can recall,

could not provide an even ledger.

Machines, Motown and marbled counter,

cannot deter from legs traversed.

Seconds, minutes, left to saunter,

the spotted hues of sills disperse.

The world strides by, across expressions

in blue- no green, and hazel too.

Antiquity in all dimensions,

ebbs amorous, rose-tinted hue.

Analogue keen and ceramics low,

remnant nicotine traipse through snow.

Photo by Amritanshu Sikdar on Unsplash

surreal poetry
How does it work?
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Lexys Quinn

Creative writer, social worker, psychology student, scientific editor, and research assistant

Advocate for the Oxford Comma

Instagram: seamsoflexys

Blog: Seams of My Stocking

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See all posts by Lexys Quinn