Death In A Mug

You look like my grandma when she’s angry,

or perhaps only the mug conjures the image.

Am I killing neurons?

Are you, my friend,

murdering me gradually?

But thank you, really!

Feels like my eyelids are defying gravity

even at this hour; my mind

is still a thousand things but sluggish;

my body, still stuck in this chair

and not dragging me to bed.

I poured one last friend tonight,

and bathed him, and I may be drowning

in caffeine right now and yes, stop.

I’ll be missing bed tonight.


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