breakfast.

I will bow at the cold maple table,
With my cold coffee to accompany my meal.
Burnt toast and and a fistful of cigarettes, crushed beneath my weight.
I will take the paper and unfolded it carefully.
Your name still won't gracing the society page.
It may take me ages to work this out.
My regression in therapy won't help things work.
I'll talk of you, and all the psychological rape you administered.
I'll fold my paper up, and let my cold coffee sit on the newsprint.
A sepia ring will form around the story I had been eyeing up.
It is a human-interest piece on the decaying morals and values of our society.
Darling, they wrote a story about you!
I will take it in, and let it out. Laughs, albeit, they are laughs!
Slow and gutteral, I will swallow these words.
My suit will suffocate me, my tie twisted tight around my neck.
I will slow my breathing until it is only the ripples on the surface of my coffee.
There's something to this.
These slow inhaling breaths full of carcinogens and relief.
The cold coffee needs a kick.
Perhaps a little bit of Bailey's.
I will drink, and I will smoke.
I will stumble, and I will choke.
Who would have thought that breakfast would be the last meal of my day.
There will be no last supper.
There will be no savior.
There will be bo apostles to warn me of death.
There will be no one to betray me.
There will be no one to carry me.
There will be no one to cry.
There will be no one to nail me up.
I will sit there, with my burnt toast, and I will put the crosshairs on your body.
You sit there like an adulterated Monet, your color soft but lacking.
I will breathe such shallow breaths, and you will stare me down from beyond.
My breath will slowly touch your picture, and rip you forward straight to life.
We will intertwine like vines creeping up the terrace, outside my window, where I watch the day start.
I drink my coffee and eat my toast.
I feel my insides start to roast.
The sun sets twice before I'm through.
I am passed out on the table.
I will kiss the maple passionately, for I know it will be my last.
My last, my last, my last gentle kiss.
I will take the society page full of it's condemnations,
and let the blinding light creep in from the eclipses on my eyes.
Red and blue lights, see the new lights.
Read the highlights I have seen.
Come and heal me, baby feel me.
Hear the death rattle deep inside.
The car is heating up, and the snow is slowly melting.
Like a man without a country, I see I don't belong.
One last breakfast, one last cold kiss.
Tomorrow, they'll be banging down this door.
For now, I will sit here and there's nothing I will fear.
Drink down my Bailey's, goodbye ladies,
There will be weeping when I pass.
I am one who cannot speak for fear of my words nailing my coffin in.
I will sit here, and drink my bourbon.
I will lay here and force down gin.
I will take it down, all in stride.
With breakfast, I will win.
I am here today to tell you of great injustice I have seen.
Deep inside these eyes of azure blue.
There will gleam some aquamarine, but it will flitter and it will fade.
The vessels lain inside my eyes, will red-out.
They sit played.
But what of my coffee, cold and bitter?
I will draw parallels to you.
Drink you down in moderation.
Drink you to your early grave.
They will write a rave review in the papers about you, saying she could have been a beautiful woman, but she didn't live past girl.
I will ponder as I die why you didn't hear me cry.
My sobs twisted my viscera and to you they were silent winds.
Winds of change that carried nothing.
Winds of change that carried me.
Blurring vision, total red-out.
This is one thing I can't see.
I ate breakfast, I kissed maple, and I stumbled to the floor.
I yanked the society section down with me.
You'll die with me you whore.
This is passion in these words, and there is passion in my eyes.
They are twisted and they are blotted.
You've got the doldrums, you have no heart.
Your eyes and lips sit cold as ice.
I sit here and it feels nice.
This is not the last supper.
This is where my ribs rattle and crack to life.
I will drink you down under the table.
The cold maple will cover my decrepit mort.