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Cold Coffee Cup


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Title: Cold Coffee Cup


The wind whistles, the mill whines, 

the flesh bristles in these chilled times.

The air bites, the sun wanes,

from days to nights the earth complains.

While mind doth falter, and flesh doth fail, 

while quiet does psalter, and love doth pale,

in the cold, buried all alone, lies an old, cold,

coffee cup.


While knee's do bend, and feet doth tread,

while backs do ache, and earth doth quake,

while wind doth blow, and mercilessly so,

the old coffee cup doth remain, dully the same.


Now, as wind grows quiet, as demons howls do retreat, 

as Helios does once again rise, and into the skies voices entreat, 

that old, cold, coffee cup starts to feel a change, 

his cold exterior starts to, itself, rearrange, 

and, that one last drop of coffee so cherished, 

begins to slip down, like a sinner from his parish.

Each day it stoops, just a little lower, 

and each night its saved, just a minute longer, 

and as the bells of hell begin to toll, 

our old coffee cup finds himself beneath a sole.

His warmth has died, his drip has dropped, 

his life bespied, charitably stopped. 

A broken image, of a thawed demeanor, 

a hollow vision, a tormented master, 

and all that remains, to signal death's grip,

is a brown liquid sputter, and a rusted out chip. 



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