The warmth of my tea.

Image result for a steamy cup of tea aesthetic

By: Yomna Ameer.

The warmth of my tea;
a visible grey ghost
with a vintage smell,
alluringly dancing.
So loudly replacing the porch’s
silence with my escalating unease.
The moon is hushed.
He is a shade of a
grieving pearl, tonight.
He takes the night as a stage,
and narrates a whispered
goodbye between
the breaths of two parting lovers.
Though tonight my eyes only
see the smoke that my own
lips breathe out.
Tonight I am wearing a black
hoping to be a part of the sky
for a wanderer whose eyes
fall on the landscape from afar.
The ground beneath my feet
is beating with the steady
the rhythm of my very heart.
No sudden saddening change
of fate would dare touch
this hour of mine.
No hand would dare caress my skin.
No breath would dare whisper my name.
And when that hour passes
the blackness in my black eyes
will have restored its colours.
The tea remains
cold and untouched,
no taste left within its sips.
Its ghost abandoned its rhythms.
Just before you let go of the rope,
around the guillotine,
there is a moment of silence.
It is those moments of peace
that I shall eternally thrive within.
Beware the smoke.
Beware the stars that sneak
into your ceiling.
Beware the brink of insanity,
for it’s the lonely land where
the roots of my mind
find their home.
Beware the hopes that
steal smiles.
Beware the silence,
yet never interrupt mine.

Categories: Literature, Poetry

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