Write an epic tragic poem in the style of Dante. The subject is black coffee in the early morning. Refer to heavy fog, chill in the air, steam rising from the cup, and unnerving quiet.
In the early morning, before the sun's first light,
A lone figure sits, lost in the heavy fog's might,
A chill in the air, a shiver down the spine,
A solitary moment, no sound or sign.Steam rising from it, a sign of its might,
The aroma, a dark, bitter scent,
As the figure sips, it's clear what it represents.A drink so strong, so potent and bold,
A drink to warm the heart, to keep out the cold,
The black coffee flows, a steady stream,
A drink that's bitter, but it's not what it seems.For with every sip, a tale is told,
Of a man lost, of a heart grown cold,
Of a soul searching, in the misty air,
A mind reeling, full of despair.The black coffee, a friend in the dark,
A faithful companion, leaving its mark,
In the quiet morning, it speaks its truth,
As the figure sips, it's clear what it can do.For in this moment, in this quiet place,
The figure finds solace, a moment of grace,
As the black coffee flows, and the steam rises high,
The figure knows it's time to say goodbye.For the morning is over, the day has begun,
And the figure must rise, to face the sun,
But the memory of the black coffee, the fog and the chill,
Will remain with the figure, giving strength and will.So raise a cup, to the black coffee of the morning,
To the steam rising high, to the tale that's unfolding,
For in this moment, in this quiet place,
The black coffee speaks, with a voice of grace.But alas, as the figure rises from their seat,
The empty cup in hand, the taste still sweet,
A feeling of unease, a sense of loss,
As the unnerving quiet now becomes a boss.For the black coffee had been more than just a drink,
It had been a companion, a source of strength,
And now that it was gone, the figure felt adrift,
In a world that seemed so cold, so harsh, so stiff.The fog had lifted, the chill had waned,
But the figure was left feeling drained,
For the black coffee had been a refuge,
A place of comfort, a place of refuge.And as the figure walked away,
The memory of the black coffee would stay,
Etched in their mind, a constant reminder,
Of the power of a drink, so strong, so tender.And so, the figure continued on,
Their journey now a little less forlorn,
For the black coffee had given them strength,
To face the day, no matter its length.And as the figure disappeared from sight,
The early morning sun now shining bright,
The memory of the black coffee remained,
A tale of tragedy, of loss, of gain.But little did the figure know,
As they left the place where the coffee did flow,
That the tragedy was not yet done,
For their fate had only just begun.As the day wore on, and the sun grew high,
The figure's heart began to sigh,
For the memory of the black coffee, so strong,
Began to fade, and the day grew long.The figure searched for that feeling again,
That sense of comfort, of refuge, of zen,
But nothing could replace the black coffee's hold,
On the figure's heart, on their soul, on their mold.And as the day turned into night,
The figure found themselves in a plight,
For the memory of the black coffee was all they had,
A tale of tragedy, of loss, of sad.The figure searched for comfort once more,
But nothing could ease the ache they bore,
For the black coffee had been more than just a drink,
It had been a lifeline, a way to think.And so, the figure was left alone,
Lost in the dark, with no way to atone,
For the tragedy of the black coffee,
Was now a part of their destiny.And as the days turned into years,
The figure's heart remained filled with tears,
For the memory of the black coffee,
Was a tragedy that would never leave.And so, let this be a lesson learned,
For those who seek comfort when the heart is burned,
For the tragedy of the black coffee,
Is a fate that should be approached carefully.ChatGPT