The dark colours swirl.
Foam becomes residue, climbing up the side.
The patterns are delicate and smooth.
The hard work crafted with depth.
The chocolate brown blending with the white cream.
The soft whipped cream melting into the story.
The silky cream disappears into the darkness,
Into the whirlpool I've created.
The liquid cream lightens the story, shifting the tone.
The coffee turns a light brown and looks more welcoming.
At last I take a sip.
The hot substance runs down my throats and warms my insides.
Although it may be pleasing, in the moment and to the eye.
There is still a story beneath.
The consequences of that warm cup of coffee is great.
People hungry make those beans. People slaving run those machines. People with no money pour in chemicals and drugs. The barista pours this cup of poison only to get her kids to school.
And me... I drink this cup of stories, of poison,
all for pleasure. I drink this coffee demanding that these people work harder. I drink to feed my addiction and drink to make those people work.
Who knew that a small cup of coffee could be so deadly,
In so many ways.