Coffee Stains

I am a seed, I suppose. The chemicals that compose me will decompose and bleed my life force into the ground. My roots reach down, spread out, and surround me in a fortress of solitude. Let the earth, which resides in the depth of my iris, be imbued with the virus of piety. The paradox lies in the sense that in this unstable and uncertain society we leave no room for dubiety of any variety. Cling to me. I am a deity. I will hold you tighter than the grip of addiction from the nicotine in the cigarette sticks I slip between my rose red lips. While like Atlas of old I spin on my axis and hold the two poles of this realm in calloused rough palms, and direct you to follow the stars as you sail across my sun-kissed skin and find there in, within this wrinkle of time we call life, my reason for living eternally. I am diurnally hoping my internal stains are from coffee not sin. I am akin with the nature of time and its flow, but, for reasons unknown, I’m not bound by it. I stem from a place before the beginning. Yesterday I was, I am, and will be. Today I am me. Tomorrow the world will keep spinning and my garden will bloom. Roses entomb my core as their thorns draw out of me a river of tears. So, cheers with a coffee mug that will spill down its side to restain the inside of me. In hindsight my open third eye could always see that time and me are cognate. We are intimate. I am infinite.