In that café, I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart
each rhyme was a matching pair of an adoring dot
on my wings.
each feeling was a hummingbird
sitting on the rim of my cups
seeping into my soul,
sipping on my saps of insight,
urging to make sense
of my senseless sorrows to no end.
This loud little loquacious effusive bees,
the mouthful of little bites of sweetness
burning and cooling,
healing and thawing the bitter bruises
of the tastelessness,
that still furrowing through me to my bones.
this bittersweet gulps, opening the jar's bows of
honey and honesty,
pendulating between pandemonium and poetry,
turning coffee
to ink
turning lost words
to the treasure maps of meanings.
In that café, art was exuded
in every sip
like a waltz of pain and euphoric objects of music
ethereal,
like vines red grapes in your veins
like a rainbow of colures in your grains
liquefying your woes
sedimenting your sentiments
in the hanging chandeliers
of light
right there
in that unknown dark café
that the real art was pirouetting
in the box of silence
without the limelight.
