Kitchen Strike

I’m…

Pouring a double shot of whiskey,

ain't tasted freedom in a while.

The golden light’s falling fast, 

like the ecstasy of the fleeing fame.

Longing,

I imagine the birds talking to me,

messengers with tangled tongues,

irreverent in their twisted wit

they are here, not for me, but

For… 

What’s spilled from above

The kitchen; a refuge of love,

a place to call truce,

or to drive a knife in the back.

Truth,

Clean as the blade; winter rain

drenched, bleeding in vain

The moon isn’t kind these days.

The crystal of my glass

—Honesty.

Reflects shooting stars,

my own sad eyes.

Caught in the past,

Captive by what’s to come

Longing…

For a place to arrive.

Still a gypsy dove,

the kitchen window brings me home

I can see

Life,

held by a thin line,

a family’s ready to dine,

carnival of masks.

I'm afraid of what’s inside,

Hope.

I’m rotting in whiskey and blood, but alive.

Stillness kept me whole,

I wouldn’t say it’s a virtue. Or a vice.

=ly, I pay the same price

Solitude.