Monday, 25 June 2012

Early Morning Brew

In vain he hoped the creaking is the bed’s spring
The ticking, the three hands of the clock in the corner standing
He damns the window glass thin panes, silently screaming
Letting in the God-awful resonance of traffic’s busy buzzing

Or is it a leftover headache from days gone still brewing

Slight sweaty palm careens lightly off a patch balding
A malaise common, a signal of years swiftly moving
Not that old, he thinks, gray matters fully awake now pulsing
One day short of a month, a year less of six decades of living

Really? Of pandering to EVERYONE, his own convictions notwithstanding

He caught a whiff of a scent most wonderful so scintillating
To his left, there on the console table, natural wood, shines unflinching
A cuppa, China white with flowers red, yellow and bluish green, enticing
Making him forget, the longest of moments from all that foreboding

Coffee? He wished it so; black no sugar plain and simply

Neatly stacked were daily newspapers he’d gave up reading
For so long, there were simply there doing nothing but parroting
Headlines a day old, spread earlier by fingers crafty so darn irritating
Making everything so open so transparent, a world so galling

Now, if only we can switch tech off for one day from one fine morning

He knew he needed to rise, needed to cap a restless excuse of supposed sleeping
Too much bickering, too many issues, much too big a stake that needs tending
A nation torn, its soul scarred its community divided from years of peddling
 Of so-called development, alas only the surface begets substantial tinkering

By a perpetually pontificating of a pathological polywacker practiced in the pocketing of pennies

Isn’t it?

A headache consuming
A cuppa brewing
A mind aching
And psyche creaking

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