Steam rises from the old cracked glass stove.
The home is still, a treasure trove.
Frogs greet the early morn' with their song,
I hear you stir and hum along.
Fog wrestles with the cold winter sun,
A visual of the war I won.
Adding sugar to the poisoned brew,
I give of me all that is due.
A final treat, earned for your lies,
As mine are opened, you close your eyes.
2026, copyright by mstryder
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