Poetry often finds its roots in the mundane. It springs from the everyday experiences that surround us – the quiet observation of clouds drifting by, the subtle nuances of a familiar street, the unspoken emotions we encounter daily. Look closely at the ordinary; within it, you'll often discover the extraordinary heart of poetry...

I've got clouds above my head,
But they hold no rain.
A shower of glass will soon descend,
Bringing only pain.
Someone's slipped off their shoes,
Left them in the hall's dim light.
Frozen whispers linger, it's true,
Echoes in the quiet night.
No baskets plummeting from window panes,
No coffee brewed with earthy grime.
And though anonymous letters might possess a pristine verse,
Yet no one with a guiltless heart would read such tales to sleep.

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