In the realm of early morn, when stars yet grace the sky,
A traveller awakens, with a yawn and sleepy sigh.
“OMG, what time is this?” their weary mind does ask,
For at 4 AM they rise, to catch a plane so fast.
Beneath the gentle moonlight, they slip out of their bed,
A suitcase by their side, where dreams and hopes are wed.
With tousled hair and bleary eyes, they stumble through the hall,
In search of caffeine’s solace, to answer morning’s call.
The airport looms ahead, a realm of hustle and of haste,
Where time is but a fleeting guest, the minutes move with haste.
Security lines wind, as seconds slowly fade,
The traveler waits in patience, their mind a serenade.
And as the wheels leave the ground, ascending into the sky,
The traveller finds solace in the question, “Oh my, oh why?”
For though the hour was early, and the world still half asleep,
The dawn became their witness, secrets only they shall keep.
So, let the clock’s hands march on, in timeless melody,
As journeys born at dawn unfold, with boundless reverie.
For in those precious moments, when time feels like a bliss,
The traveller whispers, “OMG, what time is this?”
The Poems I Never Wrote 