The chair empty sat,
it’s arm rests one up, one down,
and castors broken.
It got rejected,
by careless underlining,
that had lost the plot.
The morning mist stayed,
clinging to the trees and ground,
reluctant to go.
Why would it not flush,
though she tried so many times,
it just floated back.
Why I must confess,
my Haiku addiction’s real,
and goes on and on.
