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

unamused

 

4 thoughts on “Lost, In the Clouds of Creamer

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s