Sylvia Lupien | + Follow Poet |
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The Christmas Cafe

The Christmas Cafe

I scratch my nails
against my head
and 
ponder a while in thought,
but my soul turns bare

And Death twirls 
his curled hair. 
Taunting me 
as my breaths 
become caught. 

Caught between
the living and the dead. 
A cafe with dim lights, 
like some sort of spiritual 
dread. 
Snow blankets the ground, 
Raucous laughter is heard
As I see you cross the room
But don't say a single word. 

Instead I conduct
A choir in my mind
And wonder if you'll come 
To my own short demise. 
But here in this place, 
I swear to you it's safe
To whisper words of praise 
to the left-behind days

Where you and I betrothed 
We swore we'd never leave
And now that we're
Dying out in the cold
we can both pick
white lilies to grieve. 

But you couldn't handle
the words and the ink. 
And now that we're 
a second out of synch,
Our very last winter, 
for us, it crafts this; 
A cafe caught in the middle
Of a wonderland bliss. 

Where we can still meet our eyes 
crossing over down the hall. 
Where we can 
Still
Pretend that once, we had it all. 

But as I reach my gaze to you, 
I seldom pass out of the blue. 
You reach into your heart and pull
it from your chest to mix 
with mine and the falling snow
And then, too late, you rise to go. 

I pull you under blankets
Of death and grief and hell
And just before you go, 
The door twinkles its last bell. 
The shop is closing up, you see, 
Except for its last ghost with me. 

The pub empties 
out into the street
The people socialize and scream
For they can still
ignite their dream
with our once burning heat
at the level of our true decree. 

But none of that's found 
in the cafe today.
And the door slowly closes 
as you find your own way. 

And the night starts to fall, 
Gentle leaves flowing from trees 
standing tall. 
The branches are bare, and inside
there's decay. 
But our souls still rot on
to live another day. 

Just like our hearts, 
As the beating won't start
But perhaps we can find some 
Comfort 
In knowing

That as we look out
at the cold winter snowing
That Christmas lights dim
And the faint choir hymn
twinkles gently on 
underneath the same moon. 
And perhaps the soul will at last
alight 
As in different worlds, we 
count the starlight. 
Finally
Accepting 
That we'll both be dead soon.

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