The Poet’s Cup Is Never Empty

The Poet’s Cup Is Never Empty

Stacked like chapters, bold and bright

a mug of books, a brew of light

each sip a verse, each line a flame

no two mornings start the same

Ink still warm from midnight’s spill

stories steeping, quiet and still

rhymes unfold where echoes dwell

in every word, a spell to tell

She pours from memory, stirs with grace

in borrowed time, in sacred space

no sugar needed, no bitter taste

just truth and fire, with none to waste

Handle shaped from glass and gold

a grip on dreams that won’t grow old

names inscribed, like stories steeped

from love she lost to hopes she keeps

The poet’s cup defies the end

refills with pain, with voice, with friend

not just a drink, it holds her fight

her pen, her ink, her right to write

So let the world sip tea or fame

She drinks the storm and signs her name

and still it brims, no pause, no plea

this cup was made for poetry.