The night fades away,
The young man in his solitude sips,
Dear ol’ Jack by his side,
Herb between he’s fingers,
His mind wonders,
Was life really meant to be this bleak?
Or was the occurrence of her in his life nothing but a fleeting fantasy.
She sits her head heavy in the clasps of her palms,
Sweaty they get,
Droplets form on the crease of her brow,
Is it the thought of him making her hot?
Her mind wanders,
Away and away it goes,
Carried by the wind,
She smells his cologne on her skin,
The lingering fragrance accustomed she has become,
His slow, warm and deep breaths she feels,
Her neck hairs rise,
A burst of noise awakes her,
From her favorite utopia,
And she realizes,
So close yet so far.
Demented he is,
Scarred he feels,
The sudden realization of what he feels scares,
For even the bravest of hearts,
Waiver in front of such hefty matters,
All fly out the window,
Dopamine has flooded his brain cells,
Is the herb spiked?
No it is more than that, it has to be,
His Mona Lisa- he accepts,
Unbeknownst to him,
His revered muse,
Just thought the same,
Looks at the clock above,
Quarter past 10,
He puffs one last,
And awakes with resolve.
By: Patrick Wainaina, Poet