morning norms

a thunderous doom
rings clear
in the quiet morn

the powder clots
no matter how much
i stir the glass
it floats and bobs
defiantly on the surface
reminding me there is
nothing in existence
i have any control over
yet i keep turning
the spoon moronically

the steady bursts
of lavender blossoms
light the crevices
along my bruised brain
i feel myself sputter
as the spoon falls
coffee pours over
the table to drip
on the beige carpet
and the clots of powder
stare triumphantly
as yet undissolved

a thunderous doom
echoes oddly
the transitional norm

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