A ring now forms,
brown and worn,
too tired to refill it,
too burdened to remove—
its contents remain;
if they could speak,
of tears and worry and pain
they would leak
into the ears
of those who could hear.
My coffee cup . . . my coffee cup.
I stare into it,
cold and bitter now,
my soul it mirrors,
no know how,
lack of pow-
-er, lack of control,
be still, my soul.
Does He hear?
My heart laid bare,
O Father, please draw near!
My coffee cup . . . my coffee cup.
Aged and unstirred,
needing a good shake,
ready to be served,
past its time for drink;
commentary of a man
in a desert land
upon whom God from heaven
must descend with drink
of solace and peace and healin’,
bring me back from think-
-in ’bout my coffee cup . . . my coffee cup.
#1 by benmillerjones on August 6, 2014 - 10:40 am
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
T.S. Elliot