I need a cigarette
I want a pitch black coffee
And a cigarette

I need a window
On the 7th floor
And an empty flat
Streets with chaos and corruption
Allys with secrets that stink
And you out of my head

I want a wounded room in the middle of a clutter
Where the cracks speak the terrors stuck in my throat and silhouettes with night stories.

I want you
Right there by the corner
Where I can inhale you in the dark and steal your scent like a gem I could keep on my chest.

I want you
Out of my body
Yet it is windy
It is dim, lonely and hallow
It is pulsing and it is late
Late enough to sit by the window
Sipping at that pitch black coffee
Waiting to be saved by the morning
Or a cigarette.

.
And quiet, a cemetery of the ancients,
fondled by the coiling mist of morning,
snuggles deep in the heart of the forest,
its quintessential stillness undisturbed.

And the sun ignites the darkened glade,
with a light that transfixes time itself,
heralding the infernally ponderous day,
when life endures the basics of survival.

And the moon shines in silver shards,
slanting beams with mystical hues,
announcing the delicious dark night,
where once again lies endless sleep.

And the shades of ageless dead relatives,
gravely sit and tell old ghost stories,
silencing the cold stone walls of tombs
with historic wisdom of times long gone.



© Pagan Paul (2017/18)

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a cup of poetic tea
now becomes ready
when emotions simmer
       on a flame dimmer  @
           with subtle swirls       @
            twirls and whirls         @
           added with words         @
          the aroma spreads        @
      strained out the waste  @
the perfect taste
and here it's ready
the poetry ...the tea!