Ask a man last night what he had to drink—a man would tell you it was a glass of red wine.
Merlot, to be precise, lapping at that flow of graphite, blackberries, black cherries, and oak.
Swirling red nectar around and around in the bowl proud and tall from stem to base and all.
A dry wine, sweet though, class balance of fruit and earth given birth in a hall to both so fine.
Ask a man this morning what he would have to drink and he told the server “a caffè, please”.
Outside, sitting high, on a rooftop of the Antico Furio Café on the ecumenopolis of Kassido.
Caffè, in a tongue, one could call it a coffee, caf, espresso, small strong shot of black coffee.
Hot liquid, not as cool as last night’s wine, but warm with feeling against this city’s breeze.
Patrons around the man, engaged in conversation, perplexing if trying to listen in to them.
A man could try, a man might, a woman, a droid even, the latter with programmed success.
Jumbled dialogue, mumbo jumbo, not loud though; nonsense in tables amid men or women.
A man can hear them, he can sift through them, for a man is no mere man, no, a man is a Sith.
What did that mean today in a galaxy that can throw away identity like a napkin in a trash can?
Sith, Imperial, this faction or that one, words so bacterial, infectious even, to begin to label man.
Woman, droid, spirit, whatever it is, whoever he is, right now he is just a man sitting at his table.
This side of the world, this high, the sun is out, the wind is gentle; if lips can spread, his are able.
He smiles, takes a sip from his white cup, sunglasses down with morning’s sun up, not a frown.
No sadness to be found, if a contrast in color between black coffee and the white cup so round.
White table, black outfit, leather coat, trimmed in gold, against charcoal skin, eyes a black gold.
Wind tickles his hair on shoulders fallen, silver highlight while a patron calls in a server, behold.
Coffee and cakes ordered, from three tables away, a man listens in, for a force is tuned to him.
The Force, and no mistaking it, he hasn’t forsaken it, given in if he has to the chaos of the wind.
Last night, a gust from the ocean, heavy and violent, but this morning is so sweet and so benign.
A man, a Sith, whoever or whatever he is, sits watching the city’s clouds go by, the past is behind.
Rim of cup to his lips, he licks them, swallows a flame, fire in his veins, as frozen as his name.
He is what he is, always has been, a man named Drane T’keen, gold black vision is his world.
Whatever that means, the man can’t say, just enjoys the sound of the café, with fingers curled.
One hand on cup, other hand on lap, grasping the flap of a black leather jacket, whose hilt slays.
A lightsaber, but no one knows it, no one nearby is Force-sensitive, only him, he made sure of it.
His senses, as sharp as his ears, his eyes, this Sith sitting nearby, to her and him, all those patrons.
Oblivious, ignorance is bliss, they have nothing on him, but he has everything on them, her, him.
His name's Drane, he came to slay, here on Kassido, in a café, where a noble of House Esso sits.
Merlot, to be precise, lapping at that flow of graphite, blackberries, black cherries, and oak.
Swirling red nectar around and around in the bowl proud and tall from stem to base and all.
A dry wine, sweet though, class balance of fruit and earth given birth in a hall to both so fine.
Ask a man this morning what he would have to drink and he told the server “a caffè, please”.
Outside, sitting high, on a rooftop of the Antico Furio Café on the ecumenopolis of Kassido.
Caffè, in a tongue, one could call it a coffee, caf, espresso, small strong shot of black coffee.
Hot liquid, not as cool as last night’s wine, but warm with feeling against this city’s breeze.
Patrons around the man, engaged in conversation, perplexing if trying to listen in to them.
A man could try, a man might, a woman, a droid even, the latter with programmed success.
Jumbled dialogue, mumbo jumbo, not loud though; nonsense in tables amid men or women.
A man can hear them, he can sift through them, for a man is no mere man, no, a man is a Sith.
What did that mean today in a galaxy that can throw away identity like a napkin in a trash can?
Sith, Imperial, this faction or that one, words so bacterial, infectious even, to begin to label man.
Woman, droid, spirit, whatever it is, whoever he is, right now he is just a man sitting at his table.
This side of the world, this high, the sun is out, the wind is gentle; if lips can spread, his are able.
He smiles, takes a sip from his white cup, sunglasses down with morning’s sun up, not a frown.
No sadness to be found, if a contrast in color between black coffee and the white cup so round.
White table, black outfit, leather coat, trimmed in gold, against charcoal skin, eyes a black gold.
Wind tickles his hair on shoulders fallen, silver highlight while a patron calls in a server, behold.
Coffee and cakes ordered, from three tables away, a man listens in, for a force is tuned to him.
The Force, and no mistaking it, he hasn’t forsaken it, given in if he has to the chaos of the wind.
Last night, a gust from the ocean, heavy and violent, but this morning is so sweet and so benign.
A man, a Sith, whoever or whatever he is, sits watching the city’s clouds go by, the past is behind.
Rim of cup to his lips, he licks them, swallows a flame, fire in his veins, as frozen as his name.
He is what he is, always has been, a man named Drane T’keen, gold black vision is his world.
Whatever that means, the man can’t say, just enjoys the sound of the café, with fingers curled.
One hand on cup, other hand on lap, grasping the flap of a black leather jacket, whose hilt slays.
A lightsaber, but no one knows it, no one nearby is Force-sensitive, only him, he made sure of it.
His senses, as sharp as his ears, his eyes, this Sith sitting nearby, to her and him, all those patrons.
Oblivious, ignorance is bliss, they have nothing on him, but he has everything on them, her, him.
His name's Drane, he came to slay, here on Kassido, in a café, where a noble of House Esso sits.