the coffee pot preaching

morning finds me clinging
to the most basic things
white light creeping onto sage walls
as i pull together my robe

bannister and stairs
seem so sure of themselves
this is the direction
my feet should be going

i need the floor to be real

gurgle and whir
says the coffee pot preaching
about the monotonous grind

the scoop re-buried

unaware

what lies within the roll top desk
is two days worth of
red hot daggers
writing so madly honest
it may never be seen

and i have begun to fear
what i am capable of doing to you
in my dreams