Self Portrait 1

Sitting still in the quiet of the snoring deep back ex-study,
purpled sky double down and pocked
Snow packed and drifty as dreams on the tongue
Squeachy rubbersoled double-knot weatherproof winterboots
ooze their trekked tale slowly into the carpets ear;

looking for, no, sifting through the... stop.
rummaging around between folds of grey matter, electricity, 
somewhere between there seems to be consciousness
Noticing the slick under the lid of the tired iris: oil and tea tree.
Evolution's silent tell: the white ball
with a curiously finite number of colored rings; 
these, a deep brown
sliced from the pale by a margin of deeper green.

Ginger, Turmeric, Citrus rind; gone.
Energy gone and vessel left tepid.
Sachet gently laps against the nose, leaving aroma and wetness;
flavor, sure flavor is good, prime, nice, lovely,
flavor was good the first go round and has since faded after
several iterations and no alteration in fusion.

Beginning to middle to end to beginning, etc.
Searching for what is beneath the luke-warm surface,
though always out of reach once it arrives,
And who will refill my mug after this last iteration?

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