Mugs - A Sonnet

I was a little lazy this week, so I decided to write a poem rather than a normal post for this Wednesday.  Here is the fruit of my labor:


Mugs

They hang on walls in precincts, fortune’s lost

Souls: the drear and drooping, grim-faced, low.

Nor wealth nor penury will change the cost,

(They say) of being caught in badge’s tow.

There is another, too, that often glooms,

For lack of fullness in the joys of life.

Now here, now there, perchance, there blooms

A trodden darkness, waiting with a knife

To snuff me out and send me ere away

From others still that hold a different brew

Of tea or sweet or bitterness in clay,

All of which will remedy the blue.

The varied scope of palate, mood, or wall

Will prove the canvas for these three mugs all.