I could rise from the depths
to repose, as a rainbow sheen
in a half glass full of nonchalance.

I can smile brightly,
have my thoughts dulled
by a medicated circumstance.

There is a storm in my cup
with a void for its centre.
There is a whirlpool 
stirred within my glass.

Not half-empty. Not half-full.
Fluid sorrow sloshing around a gyred hole.

A frosted glass, 
scratched and chipped;
opaque to the world.