Is this coffee which I see before me,
The cup near my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I scent thee still.
Art thou not, happy vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight, or art thou but
A java of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the sleep-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As that cup I had yesterday.
Thou marshall’st me from downy sleep;
And such a drink I was to consume.
Mine eyes and nose are made the fools o’ the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And from thy rim and bowl the heat of steam,
Which was not so before. There’s no such thing:
It is foolish morning which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked necessity beats back
The curtain’d sleep; the hour celebrates
Dark Kaffiena’s offerings, and awful waking,
Alarum’d by his sentinel, the radio,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with clamor and noise.
With a barista’s sarcastic stride, towards her victim
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
You will not hear my steps, which way they walk, for sooth
The very stones are too cold, underfoot
And give present horror to the time,
Which already has enough, thank you. Whiles I threat time lives:
Would words to the pain of rising too cold breath give.
Humor
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I enjoyed reading this piece. It was very artistic, and made me think. My favorite line is, “A java of the mind, a false creation.” This is lyrical. You are a good writer.