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Poem
I'm the roving reporter on the move again
(despite having a cold I had to take the children to gymnastics and because I'm disorganised I'm crossing several lanes of traffic on foot whilst they are in there to get money out for a birthday card)
I'm a walking poet with an eye not a pen
(I'm typing on my phone)
There's clouds and busy lives to inspire
(It's a supermarket carpark)
But nothing to ignite poetic fire
(I'm lying, it has a Costa)
I decide to rest my weary bones
(Very much convinced by the Costa, although I was one bean away from a free drink but the sofa area is free. I got a hazel maple hot chocolate made with oat milk)
Perhaps there's a story to tell sitting amongst unknowns
(There isn't, the only people near me are Greek, although I could guess at what they are saying)
What can I imbue from a tone or expression
(I'm actually pretty tired, so probably nothing)
Perhaps to reveal confession, obsession, aggression!
(Throw in a lazy exclamation mark to pretend that was a revelation)
I'd rather abstain from these earthly pursuits
(I'm not interested, although they have great hair)
I'll meditate instead, get back to my roots
(I could, but I'm happy trancelike for 10 minutes with my hot chocolate - it's almost the same. I do have several lanes of traffic to cross back over shortly)

Version 2
Celestially I traverse amongst diamond and ruby shooting stars that dare to taint my morning
The busy bee has no time for sorrow, collecting the queen's ransom despite weary knees that tremble from the fatigue of generational servitude
Stories lost on the mist like dandelion seeds floating amongst clouds on a day that's already foggy
Nectar and chaise lounges should be only an illusion for a mere citrine and onyx speck within an expansive universe
But reality has a way of coating mortals with scattered fuchsia rose petals when they are close to losing themselves in an ocean of mythical beasts and wild waves
The safety of the oasis, whether mirage or magic of retinal tinctures or the sanctity created by a lone rain cloud in a lonelier desert
So rest I will, lay in the perfumed providers of sustenance for my kind
Knowing there's always more to be done on this spinning top where standing still creates chaos that may cause the dominoes to fall
Lashed eyes close, dream but for a moment in flashes and closed circuits
For when the organic becomes the machine, the cogs whirr like the seasons unfurling within an enclosed space, the pressure akin to the seconds before a thunder clap
To shake free becomes canine, animalistic releasing a fearless creature, that struggles to resume the expected path once again
But did manage to still get everything done and has enough Costa beans for a free drink next time
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