In The Morning

in the morning
the sounds of the day keep coming

the motors of
mankind

the birds on the
trees on the other hand

what murmur
is there
for existentialism

what dismay is there
for the dusty roads
at noon

where is despair: ?
you raise your hand on your brow
you keep looking

you insist
about its reality

ah, it is not there
and crazy you

you miss it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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