Lost, In the Clouds of Creamer

poetry happens

when you trust

and listen to yourself


it’s 5 a.m.

the muse is out

no a-musings

but I can taste

the under-waged

aged hands that

for freedom

harvested the fruit

I can taste his struggle

in the bold bitterness

of freshly brewed

wine of the bean

laced with cream

and slave sugar

the aroma smells

of distant dreams

loved ones

for whom these hands

swelled and bled

it smelled of a home

missing its father

filled with hope

love, and missing



4 thoughts on “Lost, In the Clouds of Creamer

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