Wicker Chairs

March 1, 2011
White wicker chairs and marble table tops,
endless supply of coffee lingers with the
Silent clouds of cigarette smoke hanging above.
Suspended sounds of murmured conversations over hot beverages
Intertwine with the pale smoke of burning pleasure.
The people sit,
they chat, they smoke,
Holding conversations of meaningless importance
About the very existence of nothing.

There are the loners,
Who come to watch the day tick away before their callused eyes;
Enjoying the ephemeral thrill of life and its smallest moments.
There are some who come to receive what they need,
A fix of energy before they return to a world held together by a cycle of lies.
There are those who come to work,
And there are those who rebel against the very idea.
The regulars, the visitors, the adventure seeking youths,
And the permanent inhabitants of the cafe,
Congregate around these worn out chairs and marble tops,
Speaking words that fade away with the smoke they puff out of their mouths.

And there are those, like I, who come to watch the play,
Observing the actresses and actors who
Know their parts better than they know themselves.
They perform, they synchronize in a dream like play,
Where the world is the stage and the audience.
As the sun retreats below the horizon, so do they.
Until morning, time remains unfrozen.





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