8 A.M., Not The Eighth Hour Poem by Deb Panda

Calls have their bright sunken,
To these blind vision, broken -
Upon a brilliant rise at pawn,
And enlivened to moments,
To the halt of morning.
I've heard -
Declined fare of those -
Noble history recalled in sting,
And wind blows burdens to mirth,
In dream and I travel your land.
Stared at the morning lamp,
Discovered those empty posts of black-holes.
Through a busy hour of these thoughts -
Upon liberty, broken - trust,
Under the loophole,
Early along the sunrise eyes led,
With a widest jubilation towards dip.
Let never be east,
Inverted, easiness -
Marks of mine "Brilliant"
Some diffused and often lost smoothness -
But dared - and audacity of the heart,
Took a mad's tour for the disgrace.
It was every now and then, collapsed -
While searched for; indeed pebbles,
Within broken mending wall and turned out to debris,
Do swear mine soul,
Forever with those memories.