He cashed the stash of chocolate hash,
the last, before he knocked the ash.

While rose above the mote,
a somber rose, wisps etching,
thoughtful in their quiet prose.

When lashed to mast, came dreams that passed,
So vast, before they cracked their cast.
(So well, before they husked their shell.)

While rose above the sea,
A foreboding spray, of sharks hunting,
Playful in their faceless way.
(Friendly in their hungry way.)

Where is substance in the dream,
He pondered idly through the mote,
All men still call them illusion.

He cast a ring around his own,
Till a wind dashed it through the open,
Sun-baked shutters,
Of his clay and tile, upper-story suite.

He builds a better house,
He thinks,
Before he gets his guests their drinks,
Or become a better mouse.

He pours whiskey from a corked bottle with no label,
And examines the gun kept in his desk drawer.
A knock comes at the door and he checks the clip.

James Roarke © Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved.