Black Coffee

Like the coffee grounds you brewed too bitter
your words hit me like a chill within winter;
I could only stop and stare.
The morning sun couldn’t fail to shimmer
but afternoon came and the sky grew dinner;
I couldn’t bring myself to care.

And so I ask you now
as you raise the cup to your face.
Is it hot enough for you?
Was it brewed just to your taste?

The steam comes from the press every morning
like I sigh when the inevitable’s dawning.
You say it’s long in the making,
I say the coffee’s gone cold.
We know this tale’s been told;
it’s not the only thing.

My eyes meet the mist on the lake
and I am wondering what it would take
to pass through the gauze.
The surface shows a reflective veneer,
still until it meets a single tear
taken from a heart unthawed.

The kettle reaches a boil
but I can’t even hear.
The heat is just too much
and the way out is clear.

The cupboard doors opens to china in shards,
fragments of a life that grew too hard;
I should have realised before,
but I wore steam like a veil,
never thinking I’d fail;
I was drifting through false hope.

When you began to leave your mugs unwashed,
and your daylight caffeine went untouched,
perhaps then the illusions faltered,
perhaps my mind had been unfiltered;
but all I could see was that morning light,
now all I can taste is the dawning fight.

Now I make my coffee so weak,
fill it with sugar and with cream.
I don’t want to taste you anymore;
not since you walked out of that door.



Speak to me, for you’re the only one who could.
My wavelength bleeds into your spectrum
and wordlessly I send for you to receive.
These signals are flares beneath night’s facade.

I look into your eyes and echo your gaze;
manifestations of light dancing on your face.

I turn the shadows into sound
and sing as you look around;
the response is harmony
shared sonic symmetry.
This is the chant that shall abound.

Seeds into flowers planted from our tongues;
a chorus of petals painting cathedral walls.
Language is a prison and our voices are the key
but straightjacket alphabets cloak our thoughts within.

Music from our minds can propel us through the breeze,
we’ll thread the calling hymn from within our reverie.

I see your smile without the gift of sight;
register a presence with no spark of light.
I listen with a sixth sense,
the silence breeding suspense,
before I’m awash with your aural might.

Close your eyes and lay back on the ground,
reject every sense except incoming sound.
I will call out for you into the open air,
sing me notes of pleasure, fervour and despair.

Reverberating from me; a promise to always care.

Sleep Beneath Crossroads

The sun sends its light unto where I sleep
beneath a four-spoked post, buried metres deep.
Spare a gaze to the withered white yonder,
far beyond lands that you would dare wander.
Here at the crossroads is where we may meet
removed from the grounds where widows weep.

Spared no cenotaph nor celebration
hidden is the site of my commemoration.
Staked to the stones by seeds of superstition
flowering as fears of a returning apparition.
Unworthy of ceremony and of convocation
my body is a marker of the soil’s desecration.

My waking years rendered me uncharted;
with no change now that I have departed.
The taint of my wickedness must be allayed
though we are all buried to meet with decay.
It’s a blood process, what I have started,
to become disenfranchised and discarded.