The Leak of Rage

 

 

~ The Leak of Rage ~

 

 

The drink on the wall was thick,

With the exquisite taste of red,

That dripped throughout the pipes,

And the picture on shielded this rogue,

The madness that raced through the walls,

Behind those who chatted gaily in the shop,

Never understanding this strange noise,

That arose like a system leakage,

Problem that could not be computed,

In instant measurements,

Not to be observed,

Always hidden,

Like a bird,

On a rainy day,

But so much worse than a bird,

Because it swept through the walls,

Unhampered,

Building like a climatic fever,

In the arms and legs of the customers,

Who were chilled to their very bones by this disease,

That ravaged, and tore away at their soft hearts,

And in its securing of a victim would wash,

Up over their heads without their knowing,

While they chatted loudly,

Poisoning the sweetest flesh,

Of the youngest woman in the shop,

And finally-

Becoming what no one would ever understand-

Their own conscience.

 

As the women bustle behind the counter,

Their work was undone by this panoply,

Of thoughts and emotions which dripped,

Throughout their blood like a-

Toxicity that poisoned the pipes,

Of the people within the enclosure,

Dripping throughout the entire planet,

And all its pipes-

Even those of the humans.

 

But what is this strange, thing that’s not computed?

 

Well,

I guess that all depends,

On what you make of it?

The conscience is a strange being,

And we do not really understand,

How it creeps along and swims within us-

But it is our own worst enemy-

And our own-

Unrequited horror of dreams,

That we never really understand,

And now,

It is a part of us.

 

As the music blasts,

And the footsteps patter along the carpet,

The bags are shaken and coffee is ground,

This sweet, innocent bit,

Of substance that roams within the walls,

And about our person,

In our veins and our blood . . .

Well, I suppose you might say,

That it is simply a vision,

That we created,

To demonstrate,

How we are feeling at this particular moment.

 

Simply a poem for conscience,

And perhaps not really that,

Because, just maybe,

We felt like being fancy-

We have nothing to fear, I’m certain!

 

The pretty coffee shop,

And it’s neat smells-

Sometimes,

We do let our imaginations get carried away by all the experiences,

Ahhhhh . . .

I am sincerely glad,

To be sitting here,

Writing this,

Whilst sipping my lovely autumn tea.

Reviews

[Frieda P]

Amazing what you can conjure up in a coffee shop, conscience plays a big part in our poetry, with tea or coffee it's even sweeter. We purge those feelings of rage, indifference and love while we watch deftly as people fritter by in their own reality. I enjoyed this peek inside of Foxemerald's cafe...I prefer coffee by the way.