A crack in my ankle alterts a forecast, densely grey.
The warmth of a nights slumber accompanies me to the kettle.
No matter how full my mind already may be,
I'm renewed by the crackling brew of Coffee.
A ritual which wards off all concerns.
When late morning rolls around, my body feels cold, rigid,
exposed to the elements;
desperately seeking that warmth now gone.
I take to tea, by one piping hot cup after another.
It steadily gets me through the afternoon.
By evening, I seek a rosy cheeked wine,
to blanket the silent echos of night.
Then, with a good morning to midnight,
I take to my feathered nest.
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