23 hours, 8 minutes later.
Rebel coffee grounds float to the top of my cup.
A truly spasmodic moth approaches the rim,
he looks right, looks left,
well I can’t tell.
I hear twelvethousand clinking clocks
clanking in my skull.
The wily moth whispers something obscene to me.
He seems to be rather rapt and roared
within his mothly affairs.
We hold a colloquial meeting
on the edge of my bed.
As I stare down into my now sullied drink,
his scratchy gestures confuse me.
The abeyance of my seemingly stationed
sanity stretches so far away. I continue
to listen to this wretched and feeble mite;
the plight of his life is at stake.
Oh, how he cries and blubbers on top
the rim of the cup, nearly falling down
about three times. The bumbles and
flitters all reverberate beneath my muscles.
Quicker his tongue traipses
and I become unnerved. This small body
of fur and wings resonates a stark fear
that is nestled, buried under my feet.
Startled, he gazes into my eyes.
Bright splatters of red and blue explode
somewhere inside the pockets of my delirium.
I am alone