Ode to Cortisol

If you shudder,
without further ado,
at the first sight of dew,
the premise is set.

I did…
This morning at 3.

I kept aside those
good morning sensibilities,
murmured to the wall,
while in angst, the words flowed.

They flowed…
This morning at 3.

This is the flawed poem
that was born when I,
tired and droopy,
tried to mop up the dew.

I mopped…
This morning at 3.

With insolence, I wiped
the drops off the petals of a
weary, two-day-old flower,
and dared to call it editing!

I dared…
This morning at 3.

-- Leslie

(Poem: I am but a janitor at 3 am, and with my mop, I wipe dew and scribble poetry.)

The Night Rain

The droplets on
your neck
glow in the dark,
sway with the tunes,
I wipe the trickle
with my lips.

It rained,
in a dream,
on the balcony,
cleansing the tan;
all white and misty
when the morning
rays overwhelmed
the red, scented candle
I left burning,
by our bed, last night.

Pic: Wallpaperest.com

The Dying Winter

The clearing fog...

The receding moisture

from your eyes;

the sun, occasional,

playing a heavenly hide n seek.

The small drops of passion...

Dew in the morn,

sweat at high noon,

whiskey at twilight,

and sleepless at midnight.