The Ring

The mug sat on the shelf,

a forgotten, ceramic thing,

holding nothing of itself

but that pale, coffee ring.

I took the sponge and scrubbed,

hard against the ceramic's face.

Each futile motion rubbed

that faint, brown, haunted trace.

It wouldn't lift or yield,

a ghost of bitter brew,

a truth forever sealed,

a memory seen anew.

The brush, the soap, the heat,

all useless, spent and done.

A tiny, fixed defeat,

a battle never won.

It mocks me now, that line,

embedded, dark, and deep.

A bitter, lasting sign,

a secret it will keep.