Poetry / Emily Dickinson Writes about a Cup of Coffee

Full to the Brim —a black Abyss
Whose Depths I cannot plumb
Yet Midnight creeps up — like a Ghost
And I — exhausted — am

And so I take the Cup in hand
Its Warmth — and sweet Perfume
Bring Clarity to addled Thoughts
That fly about the Room.

Tip back the cup — and drink—
The liquid hot and good
Yet Bitterness — is all I taste
Like a forgotten — Dream.

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