Hot Coco in a Crimson Mug
I removed the layer
Of whipped cream and
Now stare directly into the
Hot coco wishing I could dive
In and hide.
The diner begins to fill, and
As more people crammed through
The doors I could hardly
Hear the music from the
Jukebox.
The reflection of the lamp above the
Bar where I sat floated, island-like,
In the lukewarm coco.
As though I was an island
Raging anger, pent up emotions
To tear unsuspecting flesh.
I watch others on the mainland
I like to stare at shadows;
They never lie.
Eyes, lips, breath, hands all can
Project visions of love and need,
But shadows have no place to hide their flaws,
Secrets, their true feelings.
My written words are my
Speed boat off the island.
With pen in hand, I can see the world
Swallow others pain, brush away fear
Clear the blurry.
Music is my gasoline, feeding my hunger
Propelling my dreams and further committing
Myself to myself.
I possess a loyalty that is mute.
It incubates for many sunsets,
Keeping warmth through a wrapping of
Honor, trust respect.
Each achieved through
Completing a labyrinth
Of adolescent traumas and
Midlife crises.
This allegiance is to my
Body, my soul, my eyes,
My dreams, my breath,
And my loves.
Once earned, as an offspring,
It must be nurtured.
It is sacred, and vital to lift one to a
Plain of spiritual, cognitive
And physical
Blooming that
Reap a harvest of dense, rich,
Sweet fruit.
Each piece of fruit
-A treasure.
I fear this plain is
Rarely achieved and
The fruit is bares
Becomes foreign-
An island in the sea of
Mundane thoughts
Statements and inflated
Declarations.
A lonely man in sea of
Unknown people, muffled music
And icy coco.
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