Oh for a cup of coffee

This one fell out of time and left a note to never leave your shoes out in the rain where the wind can run away with them for when the brown polar bear comes you’ll find it harder to escape over the jagged cracks of your doom.

There was a time once when they made decent coffee, before time ran out and the world ended, and then they made something else that didn’t even look like coffee, and the smell was something else; and so we shall go back to the time before time began when the billabong was just a rusty puddle under the poison apple tree that the rich men made to kill the world and make it barren and the bygones were bygones or not, depending upon where you stood in any thirsty moment.

Sometimes things feel too tame, especially when you measure it against the template you have of your life.

I wonder how many others got to that point in life where, although you don’t want to die, you don’t want to live anymore either; and so you become a dead man walking in some pointless existence were you go through the motions of living but have no love for it, no passion, where all the heart has gone out of life and the days run into one another until you can barely drag yourself out of bed to go through another day.

Where do I go from here becomes lost in thoughts of what does it matter and why bother?

And then officially drunk and spat upon in some shark’s tooth wine beaming stars through the metal of the cell, a wounded slave in a pond of vastness, opened and bleeding.

The red shape of this is a short cut pit stop in the blackness vest of an echo that you can’t see through until the bare bones of the mascara glove box gives you a kiss and calls you Killinger on cloud 9 and says come home with me and I’ll make it all alright.

But that bus left long ago with the coffee, and so back we come to the here and now of the cave where the future is nowhere at all and all the lovely flowers have gone stale forever.

But who am I to moan so in such where the prison is a dungeon and closes around me and the waiting is all that’s left.

At the ocean’s shore where the waves say what they’ve always said I find myself come full circle at the end; and now what must I do with all this that’s been and all that that’s gone yet still calls as it fades from my bones that crumble away to dust and become no more? Oh for a cup of coffee.

Images from Pixabay