There is cacophony all around me and yet I bask in silence,

Reveling in the works of Emerson and Kerouac. Sweet old Kerouac,

whose nomad words christened me as a wanderer of time and space.

I swirl the contents of my mug and let the steam open up my pores,

nostalgia seeps out like an ocean, I struggle to push it back in.

The surface ripples in the sunlight and like Narcissus I risk a glance,

for even the best of men feed off of vanity and glory.

Tucking a stray strand behind my ears, I rearrange the leaves at the bottom of my mug,

Little nebulous patterns that whisper fortunes in the air.

I taste all the four seasons at the back of my throat.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter.

In this din, in this hubbub, I curl up in the darkest corner,

and the warm golden liquid clasped tightly against my chest.




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