Tea Leaves
Editor Underground
by John Dias
Water wavers in this ceramic cup.
This wishing well that was to be my home
Now holds the tinges of an ashtray.
Camellia escapes my tear ducts as I am removed,
And verdant vibrations run from my wet retinas.
I am the cinder in the air by the waning sun,
But I reside in reality next to a red steaming kettle.
When I am metaphors I have never hoped for,
I can only craft words for those dreams deferred,
But even as this day ends, my savour blooms,
And my blood fills your brimming cup.
I was born and exploited for your enjoyment.
You hold me in your calloused hands-
Steam rises from my throat to yours.
Remember that this world is beautiful
Beyond your understanding.
Feel my warmth and flavour
As I am consumed by you.