Coffee; Monday; The Morning’s Erasure

Oh, sweet bitterness.

Oh, sweet wakeful bitterness.

Upon the dawn, the ascending sherbet sky,
Wake a thousand thousand bleary eyes,
Snooze buttons lacerated nine minutes apiece,
Pendulously blearing, proceeding apace;
Malformed half-thoughts traversing the head
In the confines, the crevices of one’s bed.

Shearing off regrets, half forgotten –
Succumbing to the haze of shower steam
That swills amongst the flickering glaze
Of grim florescent tubes, ubiquitous,
Casting in our pallid wake
A distant urge to conquer fate.

And so it all begins, as a thousand times before –
The ties that knot, the ties that bind
The painted faces, ornamented bodies
Or for those less fancifully fated
A garb, a sheaf, a uniform –
A formless form that sanctifies the norm.

From such beginnings might one find
That soulful sustenance to spark one’s toil –
To win some daily bread, le pain victoire
A percolation in a cup, a glass, a mug,
A burbling potion darkly loamy,
O! The daily grind.

Rainbows springing from muddy waters,
Wilted eyes rekindle thence,
Brimming with a beaming gaze, a buoyant spring,
Ringing in an effervescent moment
Where life, the harshest mistress,
Is now quite the pleasant thing.

Then we seek another and another,
Like a fledgling babe to mother’s teat,
Overclocking ’till the clock complies
And we might scurry, to home as to away,
To crumple in a ball and crash vehemently,
Before tomorrow’s joe again holds sway.