Late afternoon, the curtains were opened. The children’s playground was green; coffee beans were ready beneath the pale moon.

The magician barista there stood with eyes like an ocean of blues.

With a sweet smile as honey she brewed—for a wizard who traveled too soon, no spells were enough at this time, for he was haunted with owls at night.

For we are prisoners of enchanted thoughts; the minds are crippled by chains, forged like sharp Japanese swords.

Oh my dear, no coffee cup lids for this traveler’s brew,
the road is full of spills—without those coffee cup lids.

Worry not; this day is best, for it is the tomorrow we were so worried about, when yesterday passed—without coffee cup lids the brews can have meaning at last.

We watch the sunset each day but cannot feel the land swirling away.

Something that exists forever is vague, and empathy is the key to withhold, like grown-ups afraid of themselves—immersed in the shadows of hell.

The sun does not move at a glance—is the Earth spinning alone in a dance, for the Light is a shifting stage, while the stars remain silent like guardians of pain.

Two objects cannot occupy the same space, but two souls can immerse in themselves—dancing a tune in this gloom.

Never near, yet closer, the moon—
a cup of coffee, without lids, which is doomed.

We are drowning in a sea of things,
complexities and endless ideas—woven into the fabric of souls.

So, just play. Just be—even without coffee cup lids.

Jump in with love, swim into the verses of new whispering tunes.

What else can we do?—But to bloom.

Her shop was closing too soon,
the last cup waited to brew, and the magician barista there stood—
with offerings of kindness and blues.

“No coffee cup lids?”

“I’m sorry,” the magician barista replied, but she had a smile of joy in her eyes.

“Still—no cup lids?”

“No, sir—no coffee cup lids, you must be tuned to the spills.”

“Your name?”

“Una.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” the traveler gazed, thinking out loud.

“Thank you,” the magician replied—
“But in the end, coffee cup lids are what counts.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” the magician replied. “I will see you next time.”

As if time held any meaning at all,
like weary travelers’ souls.

It felt like a kite without strings,
a coastal town without shops,
a lighthouse without springs,
a guitar without sound.
Or worse!—like a guiding ship through the waves,
in search of a great Poet’s gaze.

On his return, two maidens there stood searching for meaning and warmth on a quiet and foggy afternoon.

Yet, still no coffee cup lids—
only laughter and joy without gloom.

Shrugging, amused, the traveler looked,
while searching for those meaningful blues.

“No coffee cup lids,” he assumed—
“No, dear, none left,” the magician barista replied.

She warned of chaos ahead, for the cups had lost their best friends.

“The lids can prevent the next spill,” she gently explained.

Woven in starlight and casting her spell—where shadows entwined and secrets of magic can dwell.