The Morning Coffee

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the swirls rise.
always slowly, no hurry

the languid spirals,
pressing fury deep into you,
as you sit
[not still, never still]

the spirals,
taunting you
with their rich scents,
and simple movements

and you've lost your mind.
the inner battle
with 'calm'
preaches only of insanity
to the self-contented

what is anxiety,
to souls so untroubled
and blind?

they laugh
as you twitch

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