On the edge of dawn’s regret,
silence brews and stars forget,
I see a beast of shadowed grace,
With his fur like a night scorn face.
His mug—
a vessel red and bold;
Holds thy bitter truths,
not tales which are retold.
No cream, no sugar, no delight,
Just liquid wrath
of greeting to the light!
The whole world awakes
with crimson chirps and cheers,
But he remains Seattle, austere.
For what is joy
at the break of day,
When thy dreams dissolved
and bills must be paid?
The sun rises far
with a subtle noch,
Its golden rays lies,
within its warming touch.
He knows the truth;
which each morning brings
A thousand small of unknown
and thousands pointless things.
Yet he sips, and still he stays,
A warden of jaded days.
No purr, no leap,
not a playful bound;
Just a silent judgment,
with his favourite coffee-ground.
Behold this cat,
ye bright and bold,
chasing the dawn
with hearts of gold:
The wise narrowed eyes one's vice,
And yet you caffeinated before rise!
