Brittle Silence

Brittle Silence It is afternoon, and the coffee pot was never turned off. It is still burning even now. The liquid inside... black, and in dire need of cream, and sugar. I flip the switch, and pour a cup, of the intense brew. There is a message waiting, for my attention... as the milk is introduced, and the honey leveled, I smell the question, and the answer at the same time. The true reason, for every season... is "time". Too much, too little, too late. Cooked and burned. Simmered... until overdone. Historically, out of place. I walk back to my space. I sit down at the desk and glance about for a pen, or pencil. There is none. Instead, the computer awaits my attention. It is always there. It sometimes will even stare... at me. I have to answer, like a scratch, that must be attended to, or it will simply drive you mad. I grasp the hot beverage with my right hand. I bring it to my lips, knowing it will hurt... in a good way? It will sear my lips, but wake me up, from a dream, which is neither good nor bad. There is no jury to decide the difference at this point.