Just A Cup Of Black Coffee

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Sometimes, it’s just a cup of black coffee

and the other times it’s an early spring morning

unraveling like nectar induced from the core of poetry

when her seed sees the future present and tense

A moment longer in the blankets, to be, it tends

simmering dreams and preparing reality

strengthening the soul’s wings

because the spirit is already the wind

Just a cup of black coffee, oftentimes

stains towering

weaving strands of memories

that time tables as a stand to test us, sometimes

Sips, the new dialect

civilisation’s new-found way to say

and stay

because though sugar is stirred, its sweetness is never dissolved

This cup of black coffee at times turns out to be conversation

an evening walk persuading the cool breeze

to stay a moment longer

because the heart is in confession and the pen is in procession

possessed by sips and ink spills

messengers from a faraway kingdom announcing its approach

demanding no permission

recause an ink’s stain is intention beyond reproach

Pardon me, come in and sit

you are home, so, make yourself

I hope you take your coffee black

because once you go… never mind that, I can’t go back

A full spoon of coffee taking to an ocean of boiling water

Two spoons of brown sugar to calm the currents

Sometimes there is not much to it

But this time, here, now, it is more than just a cup of black coffee