The Vanishing Points in the Cooling Coffee

In the dark cup, a distracted morning,
where the air grows lukewarm and silent,
the coffee, now stripped of its fervor,
draws ephemeral and fleeting islands.
A brown film, almost a veil,
stretches out, an empire of gentle surfaces.

Here, without a wind to set its boundary,
figures sprout, intricate nets,
minuscule labyrinths without end,
cracks of light in veiled shadows.
Vanishing points, silent and sudden,
where the eye gets lost, then finds itself again,
mute cartographies of unresolved abysses.

It is a universe in microscopic expanse,
a slow unraveling of every geometry,
an inscribed secret, a suspended thesis,
before the sip carries it away.
No lament, no dark drama,
only the form that creates and dissolves itself,
in the placid cadence of a future.