The Cup

When you look down into your cup
to see how much is left
do you catch your face reflected there?
Does your own look make you stare?

Is that why you tip it back so fast,
potion dumped into your mouth
because what you see is what you hate
and all else has turned south?

Does it, that magic mirror,
slide down your throat with ease,
the bottom of your cup
drying like the floor of the Red Sea?

Does it warm you up inside
as it slides down past your heart,
that organ there as cold as stone
all in pieces and apart?

Does it blur that world before your eyes
images colliding as they spin around
harsh noises, voices, dipping up and down
sweet tone to blaring sound?

So does it really help you cope?
I ponder as I see you stand up.
Guess not, I thought as I watched more.
You just refilled your cup.