Bitter chewed, melted matt with a
fair share to tip,
mounted on a whisper to carry
an urn to tally the stir.
In the Torchlight Cáfe,
the face-off saving couples
stranded way past the light of garden,
shaving births of wool, wood, words and worth
an idle trifle although mean, met; need it be relieved
seems to have hung, best off the edge of cliff, and sung.
So see, the eyes of the eager and touch of the tired –
hovering honey play of bees, fireflies and dragons.
© Prateek Joshi, WordPress, 2017-2018