Automatic fingers,
Robust and tracking wild
Ready to fill and flutter with the rush of caffeine
A sip starts a spiral,
A spiral starts a cascade
Of feelings and rapid thoughts, erratic as flies
They tell stories as chicken-scratch letters,
Fragmented, but conjoined,
Portraying tales as slides in an old projector movie
Or an old orchestra of nostalgia
From a set list of what once was,
and certainly no longer is in sight nor sound
A sip starts a spiral,
A spiral starts a cascade
While the morning sun continues to rise