a poem, by Michael Sherrillo
Coffee forgotten, turning bitter and black.
Untouched, alone on the counter it sits.
The slam of the door long faded and gone.
Empty silence, piercing, no longer held back.
To bright, cold light gleams off tiles to clean.
And the high polished faucets reflect maliciously;
Void, and the bleak cup's sharp voiceless scream.