8 0 8

slow mornings roll off the tongue
like local honey from the market
they pause the heart for small seconds
too amazed to do anything else really
the beauty of the sun, as it turns the sky purple-pink
rising at it own leisurely pace
knowing that grande scale of it’s paint brush rays
knowing that this is what poetry 

is made of


Great use of setting. I always like poems that are really self-aware of what they are, and this is one of those. Some discrepancies in rhythm but overall it works quite well (maybe that even contributes to the poem's message - it's the world around us that is perfect and poems are only mere imitations of that... but then that might let a lot of people get away with bad poetry, haha. Keep up the good work.