Laureate

A pillow rests under my head,
The laureate is upon me now.
He is not my latrine, nor my dealing,
The work is supreme from him.
Lateral thinkers decide his work,
The laurels of today echo him.
My sleeping nights are hard without him,
Noisy nights need a little rest
As books are read when not in shape.
Fruity is the cake I ate in the middle of the night,
The laureate wanted writings to be read.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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