The coffee is stale,
Do I make another pot?
Or continue to stare at the world?
In shades from despair to unquenchable delight
Always lost in wonder
Great poetry they say
Not knowing of the hand that guides this pen
Through the pulpy strings of the heart
Of another world,
Gentle soft and patient
A soul like no other,
That has tempered the apocalypse of thought
Curved the storm of desire
To that of a froth
Stewed just right,
Did the world thank you?
For saving it from this fire?

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