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.