Poetry

it was like sipping your daily cup of tea by the shore

one early morning
when everything seems to be so pure

toes underneath the sands
sleeping with empty shells

of which
dreams are forgotten

yet its hollowness brings
a myriad of tales

tales of longing
of whispers of secret adoration

lingering

swimming

never fading

an empty cup,
a revelation

of momentum of snippets
yellowing pages of bygone days

clawing into

the dark corners of reverie.