Poetry · Writing

Missing Breakfast


just a dream but I can feel it

in my bones

the birds chirping

let my arms rest easy on my side

church bells ringing

every tick on the clocks hands,

my mind throws a party.

Weaving thus pen between the lines

still can’t read

still I feed

and I’m still hungry;

hungry for the night that’s not stolen by the goblins-

hungry for a story like a lost bear walking with Christopher Robbins-

just not as lost anymore-

still hungry,

for you.


When breakfast is over,

I’ll be in line for lunch.

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