A cup of dark temptation waits each night,
a brew that others sip without a care.
Its warmth can stir a comfort sharp as light,
yet leaves a bitter resin I alone bear.

I raised it often, thinking strength was found
in proving I could bear what it became.
Instead I felt its weight pull deeper down,
each swallow stoking fire for more of the same.

The flavor lingers, sweetened just enough
to coax the tongue toward one more shallow breath.
But I have learned this draught turns harsh and rough,
a private poison drifting close to death.

So now the cup sits quiet at my side.
Its nature stands unchanged and always true.
A brew that others take with practiced pride,
but I am done. I will not drink anew.


Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 6th of Ivolnos, in the year 15 AC.