A fresh morning in a shabby hotel
Sunshine pouring through open drapes
Heavy, yet obviously threadbare
Blinded; only seeing abstract shapes
Sitting on the edge with a warm mug
Need to move, but my legs won’t go
A few more moments in this peace
Hell begins once I’ve finished this cup of joe
The morning scramble
Make sure you perfectly primp
But until the first cup of joe
My mind continued to limp
Our fragile egos remain outright
Yet still free – not compelled by those
In the trenches we find disaster
Inspired to richly & sullenly compose
How do we heal? How do we grow?
Absorbing vibrations & her headspace blues
Redefinition of cool among the vulnerable
Rising morale since she turned off the news
Erratic dreams of dismantling love
The early signposts to the apocalypse
Gentle rise becomes glaring to our eyes
Summer mornings feel fresh on our nips
Ground control to juxtaposed fallacies
Squandering purest moments we’ll know
With no intention to rattle a dull saber
Paradise; when I only wanted a cup of joe
Captain Q 