Mornings of blue

  

Long stares
At the coffee mug
From a distance
Watching
How it holds itself
Stable
On the desk
Alongside the poetry books
With crumbled edges
And faint covers
Doing what it’s
Meant to do
With ease.
A whirlwind
Coming from within,
Or just another form
Of it’s being,
As if it’s trying
To escape
Towards the larger void.
Emitting
A thin white string
Of aroma
To the air,
In an effort
To lose its made-up self
To calm itself down
And to come to a stage
Of it’s own
And be
What it’s meant to be.
After all
What’s more substantial
Than being
Selfless,
And leave a stain
On the desk,
As if it knows
All the rules of the universe.
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