New to Busy?

Soul of a poet on the coffee drip

1 comment

wales
67
28 days agoSteemit3 min read

Did this one last night and still had verses coming into my mind as I went to sleep...

10213204765_6fc7896809_z.jpg

SOUL OF A POET ON THE COFFEE DRIP

Sweepwards I was plunging burning hours endlessly in the tie presses of doom pressing, and steeped in mystery.
I was second hand, used, bought up and paid for in the rain flows, and feeling alone risking everything and nothing.
A potential saint with the mind of a holy man was making mindless noises to listen and be nothing, or surrender.
Yes, I was on the sands treading noiselessly and just walking in my dreams, and soul searching as deep as I could go.
I’d had enough of the machine, that mindless oger spilling everywhere about me, and I would have it gone for good.
Setting many tasks to keep it busy, I drank my coffee, and sighed and found myself singing ribbons and bows and blackberry toes.
Meter and rhyme be damned, this is the soul of a poet on the coffee drip, dripping into the universe and going burst.
Underneath the door was a little gap where the draft was getting in and blowing up my leg and causing me to shiver.
As I shivered in all my glory, a slave wandering in his peaches, I heard myself breathing, and decided to be strong.
The grapevine in the superheard was giving me clues and making me think I was some kind of psychic of something.
As I as breathing all this down into my lungs, the doorbell rang. I couldn’t think anything at all. And so went to answer it.
I was breathing through my nose as I opened the door, and had a note pad and pen in my hand, just in case of openers.
Taking the coffee drip out of me I said: leapy Lou, I haven’t seen you in a while. What are you up to?
She said something about something I couldn’t pinpoint, so I invited her in to use the bathroom, and accepting, she dashed off to use it.
Closing the door, I wandered back to where I was before all this had happened, and fell back into my trance.
I guess life is all about love in all its forms which are sometimes poetry, and sometimes they’re something else.
In my mind I was on some sandy beach when she came into the room from her ablutions and burped some kind of greeting.
Poetry can only get you so far I found in the moment as it was happening, and plugged the coffee drip back in.

Image from me and taken in a Thai heavy rain storm

Comments

Sort byBest